


Legacy: For You In Silence

by Leszre



Series: /træn’sendɘns/ [3]
Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017), Call Me By Your Name - All Media Types, Call Me by Your Name - André Aciman
Genre: Alternate Universe - Medieval, Angst, I'm Bad At Tagging, M/M, Not Beta Read, Supernatural Elements, Vampire!_Oliver, WIP, Werewolf!_Elio
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-04
Updated: 2021-02-06
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:20:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 29,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25716466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leszre/pseuds/Leszre
Summary: WIP.[ OUTLINE ]This is a story of a lone man living in the mountains. A curious encounter with a wild wolf changes everything for him. To his surprise, Oliver finds Elio, with his memory completely wiped. ElliOllie's saga started centuries ago when Oliver was a young crown prince of a small kingdom, where a powerful Vampyre lord is governing humans as their slaves and servants.
Relationships: Oliver & Elio Perlman, Oliver/Elio Perlman
Series: /træn’sendɘns/ [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1992796
Comments: 8
Kudos: 29





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> As with my other fic, this might not be your thing as I tend to spew out unusual interpretations. Even if you don’t like mine, please keep being a valuable fanfam member of CMBYN in AO3. Each and every one of you are important in this fanfamdom world and its continued existence. Grazie!  
> .  
> –main plot elements are drawn from _Underworld_ franchise and Ann Rice's _Vampire Chronicles_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as with my other drabbles...   
>  i. the portion between "._._._." denotes reverie,   
>  ii. added "***" due to a huge time gap.

**Oliver**

He came out of the far left side, appearing suddenly this time. It was almost midnight and I couldn’t seem to get any shut-eye which led me to think chopping wood might tire me out. I wasn’t paying attention to how long I was out there. I didn’t even hear the bustle of the dense shrub. His long legs looking strangely thinner, his front paws tapping the ground in an anxious little tap, as if he has been chased by something—panting hard, almost out of breath. I almost didn’t recognize him, if it weren’t for his brilliant hazel eyes. Once he saw my wood chopping axe, he curled up his upper-lip lowering his ears to the side with heckles raising instantly. Fear and defense mixed in one.

I too was frozen in place. Only thing moving was my eyelids. I felt myself blink, holding his line of sight.

“–Okay,” I began quietly, trying not to make any sudden moves. Opening my other gloved hand, bending lightly at my knees. I motioned very slowly, to convey that I understood his apprehension and that I would not use this tool in my grip on him.

And I deliberately turned the blade side of my axe towards my back. His body jerked in a single staccato ripple, at that slightest of my motion. I gestured my open hand to signal that everything was alright. And I gradually lowered the chopping axe to the ground: opposite-and-away from his direction. His watchful hazel eyes traversed along, following my action. That was when I saw him bleeding. A streak of fresh bright red blood trickled in a long thin line from his jowl. I still do not understand how that came into view. As he kept his vigilant upward glance at me, head bowing low.

“You’re hurt,” I stated softly.

The shine on his coat I so vividly remember was gone. His constitution looked emaciated than the last time I saw him. As soon as my fingers let go of the handle of the axe, his eyes came straight back to meet mine. I kept my hands still, in mid-air. If a predatory wild animal such as himself was injured, it only meant I could easily be attacked for a simple wrong move. I moved very slowly hoping to convey that I meant no harm. And from the side glance, I caught the freshly blood soaked coat on his belly.

“Let me help you––,” I said to him. I had to think quick and my cogs turned wild as I carefully tried to keep my nervousness in check. And I decided to kneel down one at a time, instead of straightening myself up.

He growled, ‘I’m not a weakling!’ Then, just as swiftly, he coughed up blood and let out a subdued yelp. The way he growled must have aggravated his injury.

“We can do this all night,” I said firmly, holding his glower, “you need help. Let. Me. Help. You,” I said slowly.

He took a couple of anxious steps back, ‘I don’t need your help,’ keeping his stubborn streak. Despite his protest, his body curled inward, his face displaying severe pain, and he ended up collapsing to the ground.

“Oh, dear god,” I pushed myself up and hurried close to him.

With a yelp and a faint whine, I saw his eyes roll back; his bloodied belly bellowing in shallow quick intervals. One of his hind leg also appeared to be injured quite badly. Even when I reached near him in an urgency, drawing a diagonal line (a side line approach to avoid the sudden whipping snap of his strong teeth), I found myself feeling an unfamiliar exhilaration.

That was when I heard him whimper quietly, continuing his labored-and-fast shallow panting. He was clearly in a lot of pain. Sure enough, he gnashed his open mouth when I tried to place my hand on his body.

“I’m not gonna hurt you,” I said to him low.

With a final snarl at my hand, his body shuddered hard before his head plopped lifelessly and hit the dirt.

.

._._._.  
Three months ago, I was coming back from downtown with some groceries. I slammed on the break as a streak of dark object whooshed across the road, in broad day light. The stack of mail (almost three months’ worth) flew and scattered chaotically inside my old truck. Only a few moments later, I snapped my head back after regaining some semblance was when I saw him for the first time. Odd, I thought to myself. I don’t recall seeing that color on a wolf. The wind blew over his coat and as if it was scripted, the ray of sun shone through the clouds. And his dark chocolate coat shined. He just stood there and looked as though he was trying to see how I was faring. His long slender four legs firm on the untamed wild grass bed on the other side of the road, his primal eyes looked straight at me. How can that be? How is it possible for a wolf to have such eye color?

“Are you alright?” I lowered my window and asked him, “I didn’t see you there.”

His ears moved.

“Isn’t it too early for you to be out and about?”

He snorted, through his nose.

“None of my business, yeah,” I replied to him. Strange, how am I able to understand him?

“You better go on now, you know how folks around here are.”

He lowered his head a little, keeping his bright hazel eyes on me.

“I’m alright. So go on,” I gestured tipping up my chin.

And I saw something amazing. He laxed his jaw and let out ‘het–, het–, het–’ before he swished his tail once before he took off into the bush.

.

“Jesus–.”

I was coming back from the river with a couple of good size trouts slung over my shoulder. I didn’t hear him approach me. Yet I didn’t fail to recognize him.

“It’s the smell, isn’t it?” I said to him. Wild wolves have been known to have a keen nose.

He leaned his head forward cautiously, and I could see his moist snout move as he sniffed the air. So I intentionally paused in the middle of the path. His ears flipped towards sides, showing caution.

“Oh, you want this, eh?” I remarked as I draped down the catch of the day.

His sturdy front paws kneaded the unpaved path a couple of times. And I found myself wondering what mixture of aromas went up his long snout at the very moment. I kneeled down to my left knee and began unhooking a mid-size one of the bunch. Was he led to me purely by the smell of these fresh water fishes? Or was he watching me?

“Here,” I lowered one to the ground, looking up at him, “hunting season is brutal, I know. Are you watching out for yourself?”

I meant the traps and snares hunters put to prevent wolves and other predators from catching the game: elk, antelope, hog, and occasional grouse, duck, goose, and pheasant.

I pushed myself up and started taking a couple of steps back, “are you separated from your pack or…?”

Before I could finish my question, he crinkled his upper lip.

“Alright, alright, no need to get all worked up,” I said to him chucking under my breath, “it’s your business whether you fly solo in these woods or not.”

Once my trusted hiking boots carried me in a diagonal path away from him enough, he huffed once.

“Make sure to enjoy that, you hear?” I called out to him as I was aware he was keeping his watchful eyes on me.

Adjusting the rest of catch on my shoulder, stumping over the overgrown bush, I was able to glance back over my other shoulder and witness him grabbing the trout off the dirt. And all I could think about was his eyes.

.

It was middle of the night when I heard a commotion coming from the outside. I quickly got up to my feet and grabbed my shot gun as I threw the jacket over in a rush. The chaotic noise was coming from the side of my cabin where I keep my garbage bin. Though I knew my rubbish can never had anything suitable to eat, if it was a bear or cougar, I was in shit ton out of luck in trouble. I filled my lungs and cocked my rifle as quietly as I could. You should just stay inside and let them have their way, I reasoned to myself. No, if I let it this time, they’ll be coming back over and over again. Fuck!! I should have gotten some firecrackers I could pull. After a hard swallow, I held the breath and swung open the side door, aiming my shot gun at the direction.

A loud clank and a frenzied scuttle revealed an animal I didn’t expect. He raised his heckles and lowered his ears. Quickly, I raised the nose of my gun vertically upwards.

“Aw, hell, I almost shot you! How did you know I live here?”

He still looked well, though his waist seemed a bit thinner. I pushed the door with my shoulder and leaned the shot gun against the wall inside. Once he heard the latch shut, I saw his mouth move. Then, his hazel eyes glanced up at me. And as if to make a point, he grabbed the torn bag in his mouth shook it wildly before he pawed the strewn pile of trash angrily. Nothing to eat!!

“Hey, hey, hey–, that’s why it’s called trash,” I balked at him, “you hungry?”

‘Het–, het–, het–’ he let out.

“Hold on,” and I went back inside and grabbed the plate of steak I left in the fridge.

I tossed it to him. The hazel eyes sniffed at the cooked meat and huffed through his nose. A sneeze looked very much like disdain.

“Picky–,” I scorned him, though I felt my cheeks smiling.

He lowered his head, his eyes looking up at me.

“Hang on,” and I went to my freezer and got out the frozen slice of antelope and the fillet of salmon I had kept from last salmon season.

“I’m gonna get a little closer to you now,” I said to him, “these are frozen and I think it’ll be enough for you and your buddies.”

Wolves are pack animals anyways. And I guess I hoped he had his pack to go back to. I walked along the patio a couple of steps before I tossed them towards his direction. He didn’t flinch as a thud of the frozen meat landing on the dirt ground resounded right in front of him. It took him a bit of while to grab both of frozen pieces in his mouth before he disappeared into the woods. I think I huffed under my breath.

.

_And you don’t know why you kept this book_. As stupid as it sounds, I love every word of his poems. Among all the things I decided to bring up, I couldn’t part with this old used copy of Leopardi. That was the next time I saw him. First I thought I misheard it. Because there was a short howl: Whoo. Just loud enough yet quite brief for any usual communication. My head turned a little towards the direction. The crackle of fire place continued. Hmm–, I thought, cocking myself a little. I took an audible inhale getting back to the book.

Owhoo–

 _Could it be?_ I wondered. And I looked up at the clock and it was the similar time of the night that scared me awake from sleep. So I placed the book on the side table and peeked out through the side window.

Owhoo–

It was him. The hazel eyes. I couldn’t help but to smile. Immediately, I hurried myself to the kitchen and got out rabbit I caught that morning.

“Hey,” I called out to him, as I opened the side door.

Het–, het–, het–

“I hope you don’t mind skinned one,” I began, “the shop gives me good price for the pelt,” before I tossed the whole rabbit to him.

To my surprise, he leaped up balanced on his hind legs and caught the pink flesh before it land on the dirt.

“Nice one!” I praised him.

His eyes looked up at me before he swished his tail: once.

“Go on now,” I nodded.

His ear cocked to the side for a few seconds before he disappeared into the woods.

.

Once the leisure hunters swept the area, there's usually not much left. I unhooked the small trout from my line and tossed it back as I decided to move down the lake area for catfishes. Only locals who have been here a while knew of this area of the lake. About an hour or so later, I heard a twig snap. I only needed to side-glance to make sure. I felt my cheek muscles rise.

“Fancy seeing you here,” I greeted him.

“You know what I decided to call you?” I began, pulling in the net that were holding the catch of the day.

It was quite surreal to sense him getting a little closer. I didn’t look back at his direction; I didn’t want to scare him away. Widening the top of the net, I quickly searched for the fattest one.

“Leo,” I said to him, having a bit of difficulty trying to grab it out of the bag pulling at the hook I left.

I ended up pressing the bottom of my foot over the netting of the bag and flipped it over on its back.

“Slippery squirming bastard,” I muttered, as I unhooked the fishhook from its spiky mouth.

And I heard a short yelp.

“Did you just–?”

It resembled how foxes sounded when they greeted those they knew. A quiet yet distinct eht–, eht–, eht– rang from my left. I shook my head, chuffing under my breath as well.

“Hey~, I’m trying to give you the fat one–,” I groaned at him.

Once I managed to hold it tight in my hands, I was able to turn around and see exactly where he was.

“Hey, Leo, been a while,” I greeted him.

Het–, het–, het–

Our eyes met and I felt his eyes were telling me, ‘toss it over, I’m hungry.’

So, I too said, ‘alright, here you go–’ without words. The catfish landed hard on the rocky area, still flipped and flopped. It appeared that he didn’t know about the dorsal fin stretching out. I burst out into a loud belly laugh.

“See?”

Still smiling ear to ear, I watched him trying to get at the slippery fish. An irritated snort and teeth gnashing, he managed to sink his teeth from the belly side of the fish.

“Fast learner, I see.”

Leo stumped his front paws to the ground at the same time as if he was saying, ‘you bet I am.’

“Well, hope you like it, Leo.”

With a swish of his tail, Leo turned around and disappeared into the woods.

.

I heard an unexpected rustle.

“Jesus–,” I snapped my head around with a clearly startled look.

It’s Leo. He looked as though he just shrugged off piled snow from his back. Thin icicles were lightly glinting at the edges of his coat. A strange thought came to my head. Was his hiding out near the route I use for hunting?

“Good evening, Leo,” I greeted him properly, gathering myself.

Leo’s eyes glinted and something amazing followed: he shook his head and it rippled along down his neck, his spine, and all the way down to his tail. So he slept here. Right at that moment, the direction of the soft breeze changed. Leo’s ears straightened and his nose tipped up, lifting his snout sharply. It was an incredible sight to witness a wild wolf behaving according to his instinct. He opened his mouth, curling his upper lip a little, and sucked in the air. And my eyes caught his front paw digging in a little into the snowed ground.

His bright hazel eyes looked me right in the eye.

Straightening the strap of my shot gun on my shoulder, I said: “Lead the way.”

With a one swift jump, Leo leapt in front of me and began to lope into the breeze. I followed along behind him: a couple of wolf-length behind.  
._._._.

**Elio**

It felt like I was drowning; punched deep in the gut, unable to breath—sinking and sinking.

“You’re awake,” is the very first thing I hear when I squint-open my eyes.

He stands in the doorway, balancing a tray on his right palm, a mug of something on the other. When my eyes are able to focus, I am able to see the title on the spine of the book that is tucked under his arm.

“…how…?” is the first word out of my mouth. How did I end up here?

That is when I notice my arm being tethered with an IV line. My gaze automatically trails up and I am able to read the large laser-engraved print on the bag. O negative. In the middle of nowhere in the woods, how is he able to get a bag of O neg blood? Is he a doctor?

“When was the last time?” he asks low, glumly.

Disoriented and light-headed, I don’t understand his question. When I am about to move, I hear him say ‘no’ with the rumble of his chest: a short mhm-mhm.

“Did Menfredi send you to track me down?”

“…what?”

“How long have you known?”

“Know what?” I ask, frowning, pressing the knuckle into my temple.

He lowers the tray on top of the three-tier drawer and leans outside the door frame. When he squares his stance, the shot gun comes into view. He holds the muzzle of the shot gun with palm at the heel, the toe flat of the rifle on the floor.

“Be honest with me,” he states in a flat tone, “why are you here?”

“I…,” with my mouth gaped in surprise, I cannot answer him.

Because–– I don’t even know why I am in human form.

***

It was about around the sunset. Troops in their heavy armour, with caked on blood and mud, were marching in formation. Next to a dirtied white horse, a guy in chainmail was walking with his arm around a wounded soldier, assisting him to walk towards the gate. They reached to the high walls of a medieval castle, the heavy thick metal gate opened slowly.

Inside a corner of the court yard, an old guy was whipping a young man. They were both wearing neck shackles with three silver spikes pointed upwards, aimed at their throat.

The guy in chainmail let go of the wounded soldier and took an interest.

“Menfredi!” he called with a booming voice.

“Sire,” the old man stopped the whip and bowed deep at his waist, in a haste.

The young man with angrily lashed back trembled. The end of the whip had three silver blades, that were covered in fresh blood and chunks of torn fresh.

“Who ordered this? of all days?” the chainmail guy asked low, glumly.

“Sire–, the king has enacted a new law–,” Menfredi stammered. It appeared that he was aware of the riff between the king and the chainmail guy.

The chainmail guy set his jaws, “What’s his crime?”

“He was found snooping around the restricted area.”

“Hmm–, tell me, is his crime related to stealing?”

“No, sire.”

The battle-worn chainmail guy filled his lungs inaudibly through his nose as he straightened his upper body. He was tempering his anger. Menfredi cowered his body lower. The dirt-caked-on blond’s throat waved before he began,

“What do they call you?” the chainmail guy asked the young man. A tone different from a moment before, empathetic and calm, his face expression a bit milder yet still neutral.

“Sire, you mustn’t,” Menfredi urged in exasperation with a deep frown.

The blonde clicked his tongue, rather disparagingly. It appeared that he doesn’t like being contradicted. The chainmail blinked firmly.

“Your service will be well rewarded. Leave us,” the chainmail man dismissed Menfredi.

Then, he handsignaled other servants. Three rushed over and the blond gave them instructions. They curtsy-ed, their eyes shifting nervously for a fleeting moment and had the young man off from the restraints before carrying him inside.

.

When the young man came into consciousness, his eyes darted around the room. Recognizing the room was nowhere he belonged, the back-heavily lashed young man quickly got off the bed despite the raw severe pain. Almost tumbling down, folding his body on the floor, and prostrating low. The chainmail guy, now washed and out of his battle gear, rushed over to him.

“What happened? Did you have a bad dream?” the blond asked urgently with a frown on his face, "did the pain wake you?"

And he swiftly turned his head towards his chamber's wooden entrance door, and muttered in a bit of exasperation, "I should send for the court physi–."

The young man crawled with his knees backwards from the chainmail man to keep the distance from the blond guy, leaving the blond's gentle hands that were just on his shoulders hanging in mid-air.

“It’s all right,” the blond said warmly, sighing quietly under his breath of the young man's abrupt retraction, “you are in my room.”

“Crown prince, please–, please have mercy–,” the young man pleaded with a shaky voice, his unruly curls falling forward.

The blond filled his lungs quietly in increments, “please rise.”

The young man lowered his head, not getting up from the floor. The blond squared his jaw and let out a subdued sigh. Then, quietly,

“Rise,” he commanded low, with warmth.

The young man hesitated a few more seconds before he reluctantly got up on to his feet, keeping his head low, his gaze locked on the floor. Everything hurt. He tried his best to hide his pain.

“What do they call you?”

“Sire–.”

“What is your name?” asked with the warm voice.

The young man stole an upward gaze at the blond’s voice. Something… something about his voice… . At the chainmail’s unwavering gaze, the young man lowered his head and quickly remembered that he must answer the prince.

“This meager life’s name is not worthy for your mouth, sire.”

The blond sucked in a sharp breath through his nose. Yet, he didn’t speak immediately. He appeared pensive, trying to find the right words or correct way to say things. The room was warm, a fire crackling at the corner hearth, radiating the entrancing mixture of scarlet and orange glow. The prince rubbed at his mouth, slowly, with his palm. A large strong hand.

“My nurse was your kind. Maybe you’ve heard of her? Mafalda?”

“… yes,” the young man straightened himself, clearing his throat very quietly, “yes, sire, she was my aunt.”

“I see. (so, it wouldn’t be a surprise for you that I speak your language).”

The young man’s head snapped up in a surprise. He was greeted with the most earnest gaze from the blond. The young man quickly dropped his head, his hazel eyes darting tensely. Why his heart was trying to beat itself out of his chest, the dark curls couldn’t understand.

“(Mafalda used to call me Oliver before she was taken from me).”

The young man was too familiar with the reason why her aunt Mafalda was removed from this crown prince. He swallowed hard, standing there, his eyes looking down at the blond’s feet.

“(so),” the blond begins, “(will you tell me your name)?”

The hazel eyes’ lips parted, only just. Yet, he took in an inaudible sharp breath instead of answering the prince. He couldn’t understand his hesitation. When the young man heard a soft hum from the blond (who was patiently waiting for his answer) was the moment he decided. He swallowed hard first before he said,

“My family calls me ‘Elio,’ Sire.”

.

[ To Be Continued... ]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, your time and interest.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set-up chapter: the background and the timeline for this AU

**Oliver's Cabin | A couple of hours before Elio waking up**

It is like those days when Oliver had Elio in his chamber for the first time. All Elio does is sleep. He is not supposed to be that thin; it is genetically impossible and unnatural for him to be in this…. The blond doesn’t finish his thought but carries on chopping up bloody lump on his chopping board.

He was lucky that he was able to catch an old moose walking on the knee high snow. Being a five century old Vampyre has its perks, he mocked himself. He chased down the aging animal through the thick-n-heavily piled snowy forest. He hasn’t hunt like this—like a beast that he is— channeling his anger, getting his heart pump like no other. Being him and how he became who he is now didn’t require him to. But–– Oliver felt he was spinning out of control and a long forgotten thirst for fresh human blood came back. Sure, having _his_ Elio back alive after all these years is a god-sent blessing. Because he saw him die; he heard his heart gave out the last thump in his arms; his arms going inert and limp, his brilliant hazel eyes fading into two lifeless black holes. There was nothing he could do to save him. And he had long resigned and cursed himself for being who he is.

 _Fuck_ –, Oliver mutters as he presses the button on his old blender. It whirls in high velocity, making all the ingredients into something thick and chalky mauve-pink liquid.

.

***

In the fifth century AD, a never-before-seen plague wiped out an entire village. Somehow, a man named Alexander Corvinus survived this deadly epidemic, making his body able to turn the disease to his own benefit. And so he became the first true Immortal. Later, he fathered two sons.

At some unspecified point in time, might have been likely during the sixth century, William Corvinus was bitten by a rabid wolf, causing him to transform into the first most dangerous Lycan due to a genetic mutation known as the Corvinus Strain. William was a raging monster, who would kill all humans in his path. These humans would then turn into Lycans themselves, until eventually, the species began to overtake the land. William's twin brother, Marcus, later was bitten by a bat, and became the first Vampyre.

Around the late 14th century AD, Marcus (the original Vampyre) sired the warlord Viktor, on his deathbed, in exchange for his military prowess and the use of his army to aid Marcus in capturing his brother William. For this task, Viktor’s troops were turned and made into the first Death Dealers: Vampyre warriors trained to hunt-n-kill Lycans. Marcus later sired Chiara to contribute to the effort to combat the Lycans and locate William. As the oldest and most powerful living Vampyres, the three of them founded the Old World Coven and were soon regarded as _Elders_. Viktor was considered the most powerful and Chiara was also highly influential. Marcus, however, was undermined and over-shadowed by both of them.

Two decades had passed since the war had begun. Viktor increased his army, creating a legion of Vampyres to protect them from the very first clan of Lycans. A vicious and infectious breed, unable to take human form ever again, until he was born: Lucian. Born the son of a captured female Lycan, the very first of the second-generation pure-blood Werewolf (a new race of Immortals: Lycans, but also human), Lucian barely took his first breath when his mother was killed. And although every fiber of Viktor's soul warned him to slay this child, he did not. Lucian was branded with Viktor's mark, signifying that he was put into slavery under one of Viktor's early reigns. Over the years this child grew, he possessed a strength and focus that the ones before him did not. Viktor would use Lucian's infectious blood to his benefit, taking advantage of the child's thirst, pitting it against him as he was forced to feed on humans, Viktor's slaves. Unlike the others, this new breed could be harnessed, enslaved to guard them in the daylight hours of their masters, or so Viktor thought so very long ago. Unbeknownst to Viktor, a servant blacksmith and his own daughter Sonja began falling for each other, envying one other’s ability. It started as curiosity, young Sonja looking down at the pit of the courtyard where Lucian and Viktor’s other Lycan slaves were kept; Lucian looking up at the ledge where high-born pale skins walked above them. When they matured, the love for each grew so strong, Sonja decided to run away with Lucian. Though he successfully escaped, Viktor held his own daughter a captive for consorting with Lycan. Because Viktor had intended for his pure-blooded daughter to eventually become an Elder; however, this never came to pass. It was due to a shocking revelation that Sonja was pregnant with Lucian’s child, making their child a Werewolf-Vampyre hybrid. Viktor condemned Sonja to be burned by the Sun for committing blasphemy, preventing the birth of the child. This tragic death triggered the revolt of Werewolves, Lucian as their leader. With much blood shed from both species, Lucian led the army of Werewolves and Lycans into their first victory.

Viktor and his high counsel fled leaving the land to be governed by the next generation of Vampyres. So those servants and slaves under his command were divided up into groups to be sent to assist and surveil the silver minds (that have been the key resource for funding the high-born and their war against Lycans) of human kingdoms. Amongst them was a young pair of Lycans: Samuel and Annella. They two were bitten by the likes of Lucian a few years back.

“Shhhh––,” Annella hushed towards the wicker basket, putting her hand under its lid. The buggy carrying them swayed as the wooden wheels rolled on over the rocky dirt road, being pulled by four work horses. Another serendipitous birth of a boy between two Lycans occurred during Lucian’s revolt. Because of the incredible chaos and inconceivable uproar of the revolt, Samuel and Annella were able to hide their werewolf son from the prying eyes of Vampyre death-dealers in Viktor’s castle.

17 years had gone by and that was the day the crown prince was returning from patrolling the silver mind area.

.

Oliver bent down on his one knee, Elio trembled trying to make his body smaller.

“Menfredi said that you didn’t steal anything.”

Elio shook his head.

The blond reached for the washbasin he brought down with him. He carefully wrung the excess water out of the muslin cloth, before dabbing it over on the back of Elio’s angry skin. The slave flinched and did his best to subdue any reaction.

“What did you do to get lashed this much?” Oliver asked quietly. His leveled voice shaded with a resentment he could not seem to hide, fully.

“I…,” the young man hesitated, “Library, sire.”

The prince’s gentle gesture paused, his lips parting with a surprise, “they whipped you for being near the royal library,” his brows furrowing deep.

“Us vermins are not allowed there.”

Oliver clicked his tongue with a glower on his face. His jaw muscle bulging, the crown prince resumed tending to the gashes. The king must have ordered elder Lycans to _always_ make example of any offences committed against his rules. To keep them in check, at all times. The blond didn’t say any further until the water was tinted with deep scarlet. In his head, Oliver could picture this unassuming young slave poking his head around the entrance of the royal library; too reluctant or not bold enough to just waltz in, yet so curious about the contents and the atmosphere of the place. He set his jaws subduing a sigh. And he muttered something before pushing himself up off the floor to walk across his chamber. Elio lifted his head only just, and took in what Oliver was doing between and through his unruly curls fallen over his face. The prince appeared to fish out something from his chest drawer. When the dark curls noticed the blond walking back, he cowered his head back down. Oliver closed the distance towards Elio and, this time, knelt down on both his knees and reached for Elio’s upper arm. His touch so gentle. So kind. Elio doubled his body over more to the floor. Oliver dumped out his chest with a faltering small smile. And he got up off the floor and sat himself down at the side of his lounger.

“Come here.”

“…Sire,” Elio lowers his head, forehead touching the floor.

“I’ve just returned from a long battle and my knees can use some reprieve. And I would much prefer sitting than kneeling. So come and sit here. Let me bandage you up.”

It took quite a while for Elio to get up. And Oliver patiently waited for him. Keeping his gaze on the floor, the young slave walked to the long chair. The fabric of it looked incredibly soft. Something his kind wasn’t even allow to glance at, let alone touch, even for a split second. The slave hesitated a bit more, before finally sitting down. The prince huffed quietly through his nose and he leaned his torso the other way to get the rolled gauze.

“Here,” Oliver said quietly offering Elio a small flask, “it’ll help with the pain.”

The young slave’s gaze lifted then quickly dropped. Then, with his trembling hands, Elio cautiously took the tiny vile from the crown prince’s hand. The hazel eyes was extremely nervous: he blinked twice not knowing what to do. Oliver let out bass chuckles with a wide smile, finding his timidity absolutely adorable.

“It tastes revolting. Absolutely bitter. But down it in one go. You will feel much better,” the blond offered.

So, he gulped his throat looking down at the little brown ampule before he twist-popped the top, and swigged the whole content into his mouth. Immediately, Elio grimaced deep at the flavor and the way the acrimonious aftertaste coating his tongue and throat.

“Good boy,” the young man heard the prince’s soft reverberating voice.

.

Elio spent next three days in Oliver’s chamber: the crown prince ordered him so. And the royal blood had arranged a single bed to be brought up and laid specifically for the young Lycan. The hazel eyes didn’t recall much as he spent the couple of days sleeping, except for the time the prince personally woke him up for meals and change of bandages. To Oliver’s dismay, the gashes created by the sliver blades weren’t closing up. The prince dumped a large breath through his nose.

The dark curls sat there quietly observing Oliver: him pondering something so deeply and intensely. The young slave heard the blond tsk under his breath, as he placed the rolled gauze that he was holding onto Elio’s lap, before he pushed himself up off the side of hazel eyes’ cot. His eyes followed the magnificent broad back of the crown prince as he walked towards his chest drawers. He appeared to finger through the contents of the drawer he just opened. Then, the blond paused for a brief second before closing it into his grip.

Once he came back to Elio’s small bed, the blond reached for the back of the slave’s neck shackle. It happened so quickly. The slave gasped sharply as he heard a click, his head snapped up towards the prince’s face. And he was greeted with the most kind and most stunning blue eyes. The unlocked restraint dropped into Oliver’s open large palm, of which the prince let go of it onto the cobble stones, keeping his eyes on Elio’s. The metal shackle landed onto the floor with a thud and distinct clatter by its own heavy weight.

“I’ve heard that your kind heals faster in your own form,” Oliver explains as he unrolls the gauze in his grip mindfully wrapping Elio’s wounds, “tell me if this is too tight.”

The young hazel eyes simply kept himself still. Oliver carried on his gentle motion until all of the open gashes were neatly covered. The prince made a nice knot to secure the wrap in place.

“You will continue to stay here until your wounds are fully closed and healed. Do you understand?”

The dark curls’ head nodded once in a stuttering increment.

“Good,” the prince offered a small flask of liquid.

The young slave took the vile pliantly, and the blond offered him a small smile.

“I…,” Elio cleared his throat, “I am most grateful, sire.”

Oliver hummed with a light pause, letting the moment hang between them. And he got up off Elio’s cot. And he came back with one of his blanket and a pillow.

“Rest.”

.

Next mid-morning, Marzia snuck in through and between the sudden commotions inside the castle, keeping her head low to make sure not to attract any undue attention. The whole morning, Marzia made sure to time correctly and waited for the royal prince to leave his chamber: after his fresh washbasin went in and came out with a used towel, breakfast, his long trusted page helping him get dressed with his usual ‘standby-n-ready’ battle gears, his morning turn-down, and many more. She even went as far as to make sure of the unlocked status of the prince's room.

She was a few months older than Elio yet she wasn’t wearing the silver spike collar around her neck. In about a couple of months or so, on her eighteenth birthday, she too would go through the process of becoming a Lycan. Or she’d need to find a suitor before then (to bear children) as humans who turned into Lycans could not reproduce. Almost for a half of a century, it became a ritual for villagers and commoners; a perverse rite of passage for remaining population of non-royal humans.

Marzia carefully closed the heavy wooden door of the prince’s chamber, leaving the tumults out. Elio bristled at the noise, peel-opening his eyes.

“Whoa…,” she paused, taking in the inside of famed crown prince’s room: wide-eyed and mouth parted. Compare to the place she and her family called home, Oliver’s chamber was spacious and immaculately clean. A large window facing the shore, looking down at the forest, layers of billowing curtains, four-poster bed–

Her dazed admiration was cut short by a low groan coming from the corner, where the crown prince’s study was. Marzia quickened her steps and she peered her head carefully behind the royal burgundy curtain which was tied neatly at its waist with a golden yellow braided rope with two thick tassels.

“Oh, by Istenanya (* _“Blessed Lady”_ : mother goddess)–, I thought the scullery maids were making the story up,” Marzia mused with a lopsided smile, clearly happy to see Elio in one piece, sitting herself down on the floor.

“…how..., are you mad??” Elio chided with a deep concern on his face, “if you get caught–.”

“Shut up,” she crinkled her nose, drawing her small knapsack quickly onto her front and just as hastily rummaging her hand inside it, “here,” she added pulling out something wrapped in cloth.

Elio only let out a sigh of relief, recognizing the smell of it first. It was the young slave’s favorite: a freshly home baked bread. No one in the kingdom made it like his mother did.

“Thank you,” Elio said quietly, burying his nose into the soft skin of the bread, and sighed into it before taking another breath of its nutty aroma. Before Samuel and Annella were turned, two were the educated and the brightened young folks. So it was natural for Annella to be inventive to make their porridge ration into baked goods, though the texture may not be as supple and smooth as those that were made from grains such as wheat.

“… Wait,” Marzia’s eyes darted: from Elio’s neck, to the corner of his cot, then back up to Elio’s bare neck, “uh…, uhm… .”

So Elio filled her in.

“Wow–,” was all she said, taking a piece of the bread from the hazel eyes’ gentle offering grip, as Elio nodded his head slowly, in disbelief; his gaze falling somewhere on the cobbled floor, his other hand rubbing at his bare neck slowly.

“… does he know...?”

Elio paused, a thin nervous smile appearing and disappearing from his face. And his unruly curls shook side to side. Marzia’s mouth gaped in surprise, her pupils just as wide. Elio took an upward glance towards her fleetingly through his curls, while Marzia sat still there completely frozen in shock.

.

The sudden commotions were from an uninvited and unanticipated messenger from Chiara. The death dealer who declared herself as Micole waltzed in. In the middle of King’s royal counsel meeting with his advisors and knights.

“300?” the King bellowed, his tightly clenched fist slamming hard against his arm rest.

It was just a week ago three chest full of silver coin tributes were delivered to the elder Vampyre’s castle. The messenger was asking for 300 young residents being drafted to be turned into Lycans, so they could join the highly formidable elite infantry unit (*equivalent of Ottoman’s Janissary). A practice that ended years ago before King’s time.

“Did you think we would not notice a battalion of our scouts missing?” Micole said with her pale eyes glaring dangerously.

Low plume of unease murmur broke out around the table. It was the crown prince who led the most recent mission. And he was far-famed to be ruthless in the battle field—no matter the consequences, Oliver was known to protect that mattered: his people. The swords and crossbow arrows, masterfully created by two Lycan-turned blacksmiths under King’s reign, were not mere steel. They were forged by the ancient wisdom of Kresnik (*fire god) and silver coating from a long traditioned unique smelting method.

“Any who are 16 years of age or older will fight in Transylvania. Those 10 to 15 will be made ready for the siege on Vienna,” with her arms stretched out, she boomed her voice, not forgetting to show her fangs.

The blond, who was holding back his seething anger, pushed up from his chair. The elaborately curved wooden highback chair fell over chaotically, as the prince unsheathed his sword from his waist. Micole tilted her head in a peculiarly charmed curiosity at the young human. In a few impressive ire steps, the blue eyes pushed the death dealer against one of the pillars, the edge of his blade pointing right at her jugular. Yet, she didn’t even grunt. Instead, Micole’s pale face turned into a sardonic smile.

Oliver spoke in Vampyre, gritting his teeth, “(how dare–)!!”

“Ha! ha! ha! A human with the balls of a full-fledged Lycan!” she jeered, with a look almost resembling a keen arousal, the tip of her tongue licking her lips, as her pale vampyre eyes gazed upon Oliver’s throat. Hyper-focused on his very human flesh and strong vein running down his neck. After a mild denunciatory sigh through her nose, Micole swiveled both their bodies around, with one easy motion. This time, the crown prince was the one pinned against the stone pillar, his feet far off the ground, choking under her strong grip. How effortless it was for this death dealer to exert her power over a full grown human. The blond's sword fell to the floor, metal clatter resonating distinctly. She leisurely turned her head over to her left as she lifted her free hand, and nonchalantly looked at her fingernails. The blue eyes was turning blue, gasping for air, and struggled to be free from her hand.

“Thanks to your hot headed prince,” she began addressing the room in her neutral yet quite entertained tone, “the number just went up: 500.” Then, her face expression changed into something only a few living souls witnessed: the vampyre fury. The high vaulted chamber darkened as her jaw appeared to dislocate out of her skull right before she let out a strident roar. Everyone in the room cowered and covered their ears. With a thunderous voice, “Follow our command or suffer the consequences.”

A wide spanning black woosh engulfed around the large table and she was gone; leaving Oliver thud-land on his rear end, half-wheezing and half-gasping, clutching his own throat. Knights and esquires rushed to him to his aid. King set his jaws; speechless as a cold sweat bead trailed down his forehead. Because though it was an antiquated practice, if King were to defy the order, they’d kill 100 for every one he’d save.

.

Three more days went by, Elio’s back was not healing up as Oliver or other humans were generally branded _his_ kind should. With this speed, one could say the dark curls was as human as anyone could get. In between his busy royal duties, Oliver tended to Elio himself, not letting anyone near him. Because he was aware if the story would get out, it would only mean one thing. And the blond could not stomach such atrocity happening on his watch. Yet, after sixth day since lashing, he had no choice but to call upon the royal physician.

“Should I send for the village doctor?” Oliver asked solemnly.

“No sign of infection, sire. No abnormalities. Maybe him being on the thinner constitution possibly be the cause of it.”

“Thank you, Michel. I trust in your discretion.”

“Of course, sire. Though it may have been a long time ago, I do not ever intend to break the oath I took as a young physician,” he was referring to the physician’s oath (that were modern equivalent of Hippocratic Oath along with the doctor-patience confidentiality), “here are the sleeping draft and some crushed herbs and extracts for topical analgesics.” Before he existed the chamber with a deep waist bow, the old man also left some extra gauze rolls so Oliver needn’t hunt for them himself.

Why the crown prince was taking such an interest, the young slave couldn’t understand. Secretly, the hazel eyes hoped that maybe there was something more than this royal blood-line human’s well-known genuine compassion and love for his people.

“I have seen the transformation. It won’t frighten me,” Oliver said warmly, gathering up what was remaining after Michel’s examination, tossing them into the hearth.

Elio didn’t say anything. The blue eyes knitted his eyebrows, catching onto something that had been hanging in the air. So the prince took in a somewhat determined breath and reached his large hand on the side of the young slave’s neck. Porcelain white, perfectly smooth and incredibly soft to touch. Yet, no recent bite mark or a healed over scar. The hazel eyes sat obediently, rather rigid and tense, dreading the inevitable conclusion Oliver was finally grasped. The human’s throat waved hard and he took in a measured breath.

“How old are you?” Oliver asked low, sounding as though he didn’t want to hear the wrong number.

Elio paused, his chest bellowing a little quicker. But he was aware he must answer the prince, “… sev…, Seventeen, sire.”

The royal blood set his jaws. There might have been a growl from him as well.

“I’ve heard of Chiara’s atrocities but this is beyond––. When were you beaten? You weren’t even of age. Which death-dealer made you go through it?”

“Sire–, please.”

***

**Oliver’s Cabin | Continuing the conversation between Elio and Oliver from Chapter One  
**

“I…,” with his mouth gaped with surprise, he doesn’t offer Oliver an answer. The blond can see Elio’s cogs turning. Completely baffled, utterly in shock; as if he cannot make out up from down, right from left.

The blue eyes tempers a long sigh through his nose, his gaze dropping to his hand that is holding the end of horizontal figure-eight-shaped metal barrel. With a bitter ‘tsk,’ Oliver unfurls his fingers from it and leans the hunting rifle back against the wall: outside the room. Then, he fills his lungs, his eyelashes fluttering in intervals as he thinks to himself. His throat waves before he turns his face towards Elio’s direction.

“… what is the last thing you remember?” Oliver asks neutrally.

The dark curls only blinks, receding back to his head, trying to find the answer to the blond’s question. Oliver sets his jaws. A chaotic series of flashes run in Elio's head, all muddled and disarrayed. He remembers running, cutting through the forest, his breaths so rough, his heart beating at its top speed—leaves and branches are lashing against his body. The desperate urgency, the excruciating heartache, and… and…

“My name is Oliver. You are in my cabin. We are almost at the border,” the blue eyes tosses his softly clenched hand with his thumb over his shoulder, “25 miles north is Canada.”

Elio simply blinks, taking the information in, stealing unsure upward glances at Oliver. To that, the blond asks, tempering a sigh,

“Do you know your name?”

Two blinks are all Oliver gets. The blue eyes’ lips part, realizing what’s going on. Though his face expression mild, it dawns on him that _his_ Elio somehow survived, his memory completely wiped. After another upward glance through his messy curls, the hazel eyes shakes his head.

Oliver’s nostrils flare and he clenches his fists tighter, as the calm and affectionate voice of Elio that he vividly remembers, after all these years echoing in his head:

_You will know me by my love._

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> –Technically, this AU will be an extended verse of _Underworld–Rise of the Lycans_ with some adjustments to its trope. Lucian is Lycan but, here transcriber-me decided to stick with the werewolf trope element. The main reason the blood line of Corvinus is introduced this way has everything to do with why Oliver, later, gets turned into a Vampyre. (hint: me not boding well with young Vimini gone too soon)  
> –Oh, and the narrator voice calling Elio at this stage of the storyline as Lycan has its reasons.   
> –In medieval times, Elio and Oliver would have been much younger as the average life expectancy was 30s, back then. Since this AU is being drabbled out in this century, transcriber-me took the liberty of modernizing it. Plus, though I hold a quite liberal standpoint and share similar points of view with many post-modern scholars (and clinicians) about human fetishes-n-kinks, pedophilia is never-ever, no-fucking-way, over-my-dead-body for any discussion, as in none. It is something I shall _never_ condone. Can you see my blood boiling? Hmm?  
> –Istenanya (Boldogasszony): She was the goddess of motherhood and helped women in childbirth. After Hungarians were Christianized with the help of St. Gerard of Csanad, her figure fell out of favor for that of the Virgin Mary. She is considered the “Queen( _Regina_ ) of Hungary.”  
> –Kresnik is a Slavic god associated with fire, the summer solstice, and storms. He was worshiped among the Slavic population of the eastern Alps. He is probably the same deity as Svarožič, son of the Slavic sun god, Svarog.  
> ; here I sorta fudged this deity since my knowledge on Hungarian Mythology is not as deep. I mixed Kresnik with the African Yoruba Mythology _Ogun_ , as he is the fire god and patron of blacksmiths, iron, warfare, metal tools.  
> –mauve liquid is fresh liver smoothie.  
> .  
> uhmm... I still don't know what I'm doing (meaning, still researching and fact checking loads and loads of stuff/ in other words, update may not be as readily as most of my other drabbles *sweating*). And I also have a habit of adding more stuff without letting it known to anyone so... (well, because, I'm not doing this for number of kudos or hits. Posting drabbles here is a self-indulgent way of dealing with my obsession(?!) with CMBYN verse, though I have a somber trepidation about the fact that I cannot seem to let Elio and Oliver go. It kinda feels like I'm living in the past when everyone else has moved on... anywho~) If you've read it when this was first posted back in August 2020, I just want you to know both chapters that are posted here have been (*whisper* _heavily_ ) revised. *nervously scratching the back of my head* there is a title artwork I did as well... so...  
> .  
> As always, thank you for reading, your time and interest.  
> 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating: **G**  
> .  
> [ disclosure ] for those who read previous chapters... I've uh... made quite a bit of changes in them though the story progression stayed the same. *hiding behind the neighbor's gigantic Christmas yard decoration*

Oliver is standing outside with his lined jacket on, his hands in the pockets.

The morning sun breaks the horizon slowly, showing off its magnificence coloring the scenery in a way that can never be replicated. And above him, a cloudless crystal clear sky domes the crisp cool air. It begins on a November evening each year; the lake freezes up from the rim along the shoreline as the world falls asleep. And it greets the breaking dawn with a different flavor; everything is still alive yet they are not. Something stretched thin as the last days of the autumn is trying so hard to say proper goodbyes. Some nights, the ice forms halfway across the lake, as if to stretch out its limbs from last winter, waking up from its long slumber. Though come morning, it shatters into countless thin shards beneath lapping waves and gliding autumnal winds.

The freeze-up on the lake is a prelude to winter; a prelude to shorter days and longer nights; a prelude to hardship. There is no stopping it. Though it always lets itself known in a gentler way the most people dare to perceive. It takes its time.

Hunter’s moon has come and gone. And it marked another year on his already extended life as this… _creature_. Elio’s recovery has been slow. And each night, Oliver half-expected to hear him to burst out away from the log cabin he built for himself. Yet, it never came to pass. Yeah…, Oliver casts his gaze to his feet, a place of my own: from the foundation to every shingle on the roof, tireless days and nights they were. Many decades ago when he first came here, he had hoped that, at least, he could be left alone in this small piece of land.

Oliver tips his nose and his nostrils move a little. And a soft smile blooms on his face.

\ “It’s like rain but in reverse,” \ Elio’s voice echoes in his head, \ “instead of gathering together, tiny water beads spread. You can almost smell them letting out a burn as they turn into snowflakes.” \

It was Elio who taught him how to smell the coming snow. And from the looks of it, it’s going to be a blizzard. Oliver chuckles to himself. The kind whirling wind carrying its large flakes that will blanket everything they land on.

Oliver ducks in head a little and proceeds to gathering some splitted logs from his wood shed. With practiced ease, he piles a decent amount into his bent arm before returning inside. When he palms the door open, his body pauses. Wrapped around in a blanket, Elio is sitting by the fire; his legs bent, tucked close to his chest, absently gazing at the fire.

“Good morning,” Oliver says low, pretending that it’s a thing they do each morning, though it’s the very first ever Elio being awake this time of the day, “did you sleep well?”

Oliver indeed catches Elio startle a little. Just like he remembers, Elio takes in an inaudible breath through his nose to hide it. Oliver sets his jaws and subdues his hum. Because it means his werewolf senses are not back yet, that he still needs a lot more healing to do. Elio simply blinks as Oliver lays down the logs by the fire.

“Do you feel like some breakfast? I can get some eggs out fro… .” As the human innovations progressed, the quality of freeze-dried goods improved significantly over the years. Though Oliver never really needs to feed often, having them in his stash made things easier for him. Or so Oliver came to believe as time passed by. To his disappointment, Elio wordlessly shakes his head. Oliver pauses a little but dips his head with a little nod in ‘alright’ and doesn’t press upon him to change his mind.

The glass front panel ajars with Oliver’s carpenter leather gloved hand. Immediately, the wood burning aroma wafts into the room air. The crackle-n-pop of well dried log feeding the bright red fire in the cast iron stove somehow fills the uneasy fissures suspended between Elio and Oliver. As soon as the door sqeak-closes, the convection air whirls inside spreading the warm smoke up the pipe.

“Can you tell me about… me?”

Oliver doesn’t answer him immediately. Instead, he reaches his attention to the logs he brought in, a stray hair falling over his forehead. When he is satisfied with neatness of the small log stack, Oliver doesn’t get up but swivels to sit on the floor by the fire. His ankles crossed, knees parted, hugging them loosely in with the inside of his elbow. Oliver’s gaze lifts up and, gratefully, is greeted by Elio’s mild expression. He pulls the corners of his mouth to the opposite side before he says,

“…how much do you remember?”

Elio’s eyelashes cast down low, the toes of his bare feet curling in a fidgeting motion a few times.

“I remember you feeding me your catch. The fish, the skinned rabbit…”

Oliver nods minutely, keeping his face expression mild, “Do you know how long you have been out here?”

Unruly curls sway quickly side to side.

“What is your first memory?” Oliver continues warmly.

“I… I remember running through the forest. I didn’t recognize where I was or where I was going. I just kept running.”

The memory of pounding heart, him cutting through the branches, hearing his own rough breaths, and the crushing desperation comes back to him. And Elio screws his eyes shut.

“… I was looking for someone. I…,” Elio stammers, recalling the desperate longing to find someone that overwhelmed him as if his entire life was depending on it.

“Your name is Elio. You were born a pure bred werewolf. A son of Samuel and Annella Perlman. Your first transformation was on a Wolf’s moon.”

It was two months after his eighteenth birthday; Oliver still vividly remembers. Seeing Elio take his true form as a magnificent werewolf, his coat was darker then: almost black, shimmering. Unlike others of his race, werewolf Elio was only a size bigger than the largest breed of Wild wolf in American region. Very unusual.

“…are you a… doctor? or, or… a medicine man?”

Oliver huffs with a closed-lip smile, lightly shaking his head. Elio probably isn’t aware he is conversing with Oliver with his mother tongue.

“By now, you know I’m not a human. Blood is not for me, I don’t need it as much anymore. It’s for emergencies. Hunters and hikers get stranded from time to time. I worked out a deal with park rangers to have them handy.”

Oliver catches Elio’s eyes stealing an upward glance through his wayward curls, falling over his forehead. Though there was no apparent fear towards Oliver not being a human, the vampire senses Elio being uncertain, a little uneased.

“How…? If you are not a human… How did I not? … How do you know about me?”

Of course, werewolves and vampyres have been at odds since their emergence. It was practically impossible for two species to be friends, let alone cordial acquaintances.

“I was once. And… that was when I first met you.”

“I… I don’t understand. I met you when you were a human?”

“Yes.”

“But… how? Wh… when? I don’t… how were we…? Aghh… I can’t I remember anything.”

“How about I get you something to eat? Hmm? Something warm. And we’ll talk more.”

***

On top of Chiara sending her underling unannounced demanding more sacrifice from his people did more than unsettling Oliver, realizing her atrocity forced upon Elio in this way enraged him.

“Please, sire,” Elio pleaded when Oliver asked him who the death-dealer was that done the evil.

Oliver pushed himself up couldn’t contain his murderous fury, he stormed to the other side of the room to get his gears. And when he was about to call out for his squire, Elio rushed over and prostrated in front of him.

“For heaven’s sake, Elio,” Oliver scolded with a frown.

“Please, please don’t, sire. My family will be executed.”

“It is not your fault. Why an earth your family be executed?” Oliver tossed, reaching for his inner armour layers.

Elio grabbed Oliver’s legs around the ankle, “Sire, please mercy.”

“I’ll see to it that your family is taken care of. Should the death-dealer finds out–.”

“No, no, no, sire.”

Oliver dumped out his chest and knelt on his left knee to assure Elio. He held the young slave’s upper arms in a reassuring grip. Elio was trembling. Why are you so scared? Oliver knitted his eyebrows.

“Elio, whatever it is, you are safe with me. I swear on my life–.”

“Sire, please you mustn’t. I do not deserve it.”

“How about you let me be the judge? Mhm? Mind you, you are aware that I am a–”

“I was born a werewolf!!” Elio blurted out. And he quickly made his body smaller, cowering lower to the floor, instantly regretting what he just said.

The blood drained from Oliver’s face. His warm grips on Elio’s upper arms went rigid. Because Oliver was intimately familiar with Lucian’s revolt seventeen years ago that occurred in Victor’s castle. When Chiara took over, as Lucian’s birth wasn’t the isolated occurrence of Lycan species’ evolution, there was a region wide mandate (a brutal crusade) to eradicate likes of Lucian: the natural born werewolves. Of course, there were only less than a dozen. But for Chiara, it was simply a great excuse to jettison the ever increasing number of existing lycan population to her liking. Bloody, cruel, and needless slaughter continued for several years. Kingdoms of humans, small or large, were shook to their core. Maybe that was her strategy after all. Rule with fear and have every living soul to tremble and shiver at her feet. Oliver couldn’t help but to swallow. With a sharp breath, Oliver released his hold from Elio. The young werewolf sank lower to the ground, though he couldn’t fold his body any smaller.

“So...,” Oliver began quietly, “you haven’t had your–.”

Elio shook his head. The human prince meant his first advent transformation. It was said to occur in one of full moons. For werewolves that is. What must I do…? Elio wondered in his head, cold sweat forming on his forehead. That was when he heard Oliver taking a large audible breath.

“Then, I must go fetch more remedies from the royal physician.”

Elio’s head lifted. And to his surprise, Oliver offered his large open hand with a smile.

“Come,” the royal blood said warmly, “I particularly do not like being on the floor.”

His hazel gaze studied the callused, battle worn hand. And something like a tiny ember covered in the pile and pile of ashes, hidden from the plain sight yet still holding the power to burn through the entire house, something tingly and sweltering, bloomed right at the center of his heart.

.

Despite the king’s objection, Oliver kept Elio close by his side. Slowly, Oliver taught Elio the way around his chambers. It started with the usual husbandry: laundry, bringing meals up from the kitchen, taking out the wash basin, and such. By the end of the waning moon, Elio took over majority of Oliver’s aging squire’s job. The young werewolf now had a small bed of his own in the corner with a curtain for his privacy. Oliver discovered that the hazel eyes was very well-versed in human. Naturally, the blond had him read the correspondences while he cleaned his own chainmail and sharpened his sword.

“It humbles me,” the human offered when Elio asked why the crown prince didn’t let servants to do those jobs like other knights did, “besides, it’s my armour. I ought to know the ins and outs of it. Like my horse.”

By the next waxing moon, Elio was tending Oliver’s horse. Oats were his favorite apart from apples and tree nuts he’d pick up from Marzia’s basket. Gossips started to spread yet none bothered the crown prince. One afternoon, Elio was admiring the metal armour at the corner of Oliver’s chamber. He was imagining Oliver in full gear.

“The last time I wore that was for a jousting tournament.”

Elio jumped. And Oliver chuckled.

“I can’t imagine wearing that again for all the things going on,” Oliver ruffled the back of Elio’s head with a smile. Elio was blushing, ducking his chin close to his chest.

The last jousting tournament was almost five years ago. Because William’s appetite for breeding lycans increased exponentially. Chiara’s effort to defeat them never ceased. Because Lycans’ attack on silver minds were never the kind that two arrange to go head-to-head in a battle field. Because getting a full armour on that weighed almost as much as a full grown man usually took more time than one could ever imagine. So Oliver’s knights and warriors learned to do with gambeson (*type of underarmour liners made of leather over linen layer) and chainmail. Or else, the kingdom wouldn’t be able to make tribute to Chiara’s coven.

“One day, you can help me with my chainmail,” Oliver pet-pet his palm lightly on the middle of Elio’s upper back before he walked away to get into bath.

Elio blushed harder. Because the crown prince had been cleaning and handling his own chainmail. A thing even his trusted squire wasn’t allowed. So getting a chance to sit down and tend to his chainmail meant that Oliver trusted Elio more than anyone in the world.

“Elio! Could you bring me the towel?” Oliver’s voice boomed low from the corner.

.

Elio shrunk his shoulders when he felt Oliver’s hands. The human was reaching for the lock on his collar.

“Only when we are out,” he undid the shackle from Elio’s neck once they came back to Oliver’s chamber. The tone of his voice was tinted with trepidation. Oliver was grumbling and Elio could tell that much about him.

Elio was the one insisted to wear the three-prong on his neck. Although the blond said that there should be no one challenging him, Elio objected with his wayward curls swaying horizontally for the third time. This is dreadfully heavy to be around your neck, the prince had said. And Elio only offered a closed lipped smile, looking up at him through his curls.

.

At the breaking dawn, the first of hundred mortal youngs left the castle gate after being fed most generously the night before. “It’s at least we can do, father,” Oliver implored. The king squared his jaws before he agreed to the crown prince’s request. Yet the king didn’t fail to notice Oliver’s agitation. So he tasked his son to fetch some rare books from the monastery just few hours ride outside the castle.

“…Come along, sire?” Elio blinked up at him, his hands in stark pause. He was cleaning the window.

The nonchalant way Oliver asked, why don’t we go together?, surprised him. For the royal blood, it was unsurprising and how it should be. Because he knew Elio loved everything about books. An hour later, Marzia fussing over to pack them a nice snack for the road, two were on the horse. Elio was never been outside the kingdom borders. Everything was new and different; wild plants, flowers, chirps and serenades of birds, and chitters and bustle of small animals, the wind blowing across the open field, the melody of spring water rolling over the river bed and rocks. Things he never knew to hear, feel, and see before until this very moment. Wow—

Oliver smiled to himself witnessing Elio marveling everything on their path. Accompanied by rhythmical hoof-claps on the mahogany earthen path, two couldn’t help but being enveloped in a little slice of their own peace.

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As Always, Thank you for reading, your time and interest.   
>  Please never forget to stay well and healthy: mind, body, and soul.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On their way back from monastery, they were ambushed and chased by the bandits. Elio’s mare that never encountered the swarm of offenders became incredibly spooked and took off running. Oliver chased him down, urging his charger desperately. A trap thrown by one of the outlaws catapulted the mare forward, locking her front legs. Yet, Oliver managed to catch Elio’s hand, without any concern for his safety or well-being. Right at that moment, over on the dark clouded sky, Wolf’s moon shone through. And Oliver witnessed Elio’s first advent transformation. Of course, you all can get a glimpse of how Vimini plays a part in this AU.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ Heads-Up ] Fantasy and supernatural elements  
> *palm on my chest* I hope you all will stay but if these elements are not to your liking, *light head curtsy* please—, hard left. I appreciate you dropping by. *warm smile*  
> .  
> No stylistic exploration here. *cross my heart* Transcriber-me has (as some of you already know) limited(?) say on how narration plays out. It tells you about how unreliable narrator transcriber-me is, eh~?  
> 

Oliver’s stallion barreled down, in full speed, cutting through the woods. His grip tight on the reign, the prince was inclined forward, trying desperately to not lose the sight of frightened mare that took off into the unbeaten path. On her, Elio was hanging on, only just, clutching onto her neck, his wrist caught in an odd twist. The leather strap of the reign was strangling his forearm and his fingers. They weren’t lycans, night creatures that shy away from daylight, but bandits. A band of humans who fled from living the life they were born into, the painful inevitability servitude until their deaths.

.

When Oliver and Elio arrived at the monastery, it was a bit past the mid-day. Sure, he could have hastened; his trusted horse was more than capable. But Oliver wanted Elio to soak in everything he wanted. Despite being the winter, this year wasn’t as harsh as the last one. The wild winter vegetation was visible and the busy wild life was in their full swing, as if they knew there was someone who could appreciate their existence. So on their way, only a horse length ahead, he held the reign loosely in his grip as the leisurely clop-clop of hooves reverberated the ground.

Elio ducked his head getting his mare and Oliver’s horse towards the standing post, a few feet from the monastery’s main entrance. And he found himself being greeted with open-arms, with no hint of fear or disdain for seeing the neck shackle around his neck. Elio found himself blinking at the unexpected warm welcome, uncertain of how to react properly. This religious man offered him an earnest hand, telling him he was confident Elio would love their hand-made cheese for lunch. Oliver followed behind with soft crinkle lines around the edges of his eyes.

The friar (with an apron) brought out two plates of sliced bread and cheese. Elio hesitated, looking down at his plate, as he has never been served as equal. Oliver took in how he breathed in the fresh aroma, him subduing a happy moan behind his closed lips.

“The grains harvested his year is exceptionally nutty,” the friar said, his tone kind and gentle, gesturing to Elio’s direction he should go ahead.

His hand flinched minutely in hesitation a little before his fingers extended to grab a slice. It was pillowy in the middle and crispy crust outside. He couldn’t help himself but to raise it up close to his nose and took a whiff, timidly. The aroma hit him and Elio’s shoulders pulled in close, as if it were a soft blanket over his shoulders or a genuine hug from someone so dear. He never smelled anything this good before. And automatically, his eyes rolled slow behind his softly closed eyes. A breath hitched on the back of Oliver’s throat, which was followed by a lurid thump. What a sight, Oliver thought. Wind swept curls falling over his forehead and a slight tint of blush on his sculpted cheek bones, Elio blinked with his eyes casted low in the anticipation of tasting a rare treat. Elio’s lightly parted lips were in a shade Oliver didn’t imagine that he’d be drawn towards. And Oliver heard his heartbeat pulsating in his ears basking in what was playing out in front of his eyes. It was something Oliver could not describe with the words he knew.

After two enjoyed and finished their plateful of goodies in relaxed silence, Oliver followed the monk who was in charge of library, Elio trailing a few steps behind them. The crown prince leaned forward a little and asked quietly if Elio could possibly look around. The monk blinked with a delayed closed lip smile.

“One moment,” the librarian said before he disappeared for a little while then came out with another friar. He lengthened his open hand towards Elio and the second librarian smiled softly.

“(I trust that you know how to read, young sir?)” the smaller friar who dipped his head as a greet to Elio asked.

Elio’s eyelids blinked quickly in genuine surprise. Because he spoke Elio’s tongue. It took him a couple of moments to realize the second librarian was waiting for his answer. The young slave’s head stuttered a nod, “y-y-yes.”

Oliver turned his head over his shoulder was when Elio was looking up at him, as if he was asking his permission. So the royal blood dipped his head, gracefully.

.

–x–x–x–

The world whirled and spun around Oliver as if he was being engulfed in a personal tornado. He braced himself, screwing his eyes shut tight, for a steep fall. But the windmill sensation of his body ceased with an abrupt stop. It almost felt like he landed on a softest pile of pelts. The crown prince cracked his eye open cautiously, fearing what he might witness. Oliver’s lips parted with soundless gasp. He was standing in the middle of the air, suspended only a step of stair above the ground. Strangely, he felt his body being lowered slowly to the ground. The royal blood sucked in a breath as his feet finally touched the floor.

Is this a cave? Oliver wondered in his head. Because there was this distinct scent; something damp, something earthy-n-musty yet metallic. Not to mention, the arch form of underneath that years of water and power of Mother Nature cratered through. He felt his head turn over his right shoulder, the sensation so foreign and out of body. His widened eyes came to focus and Oliver saw the inside of the circular shaped walls were glowing with green stars. It looked like a powerful and gigantic vortex had gorged passed it. Nothing man-made.

And yet, a shimmering image of a wooden cottage was juxtaposed over it. An arched wooden door, chimney bellowing soft smoke up, and all. Oliver cocked his head. Why am I feeling compelled to open the door?

There was another whoosh around him, blowing his hair in upswirl. Oliver raised his open hands to block them splashing on his face. Strangely, the whirlwind was warm, almost cozy, as the wooden door open ajar. A few blinks of his eyes played out unconsciously. A yard ahead, there was an outline of a woman in a long dress, the fabric glimmering blood red by the moon light. Her long golden hair was braided in a way that was so familiar to Oliver.

“Mother…?”

A soft huff that sounded like a closed lipped smile left the figure and _she_ deftly turned her head to her right. Why Oliver’s feet started to move toward her, his mind couldn’t comprehend. He felt his body catching up to his brain discernment. Because his hand reached for the dagger he had hidden under his right forearm. The blond swiveled the handle of the small weapon in his grip soundlessly, positioning it along the length of his left forearm. With the blade side towards her direction, his torso cocked in a defense slant (the patrol stance for imminent danger), his knees bent a little, Oliver angle-sidestepped one careful forward after another, crossing the threshold.

“There is no need for that,” the voice spoke, without stopping her motion of gathering something in front of her.

Oliver’s gaze sidelined over his dagger and his grip tightened before he lowered his arm from his neck to his last rib. The woman hummed without turning around. When his thirteenth step carried him closer, the crown prince began to notice that he wasn’t inside the cavern any more. It was a blue black dome that looked as big as the big cathedral he only saw from a drawing. Then, his chin ducked a little at his foot. The sensation of his step suddenly changed. His feet were no long stepping on a wet dirt ground. Despite what his senses were telling him, the field of soft grass he was walking on didn’t have any dew. How can this be?

Right at that moment, the figure turned her head over her left, stretching her effortlessly bent arm over to his direction.

“Come~,” her voice, inviting and earnest, said extending her open palm, “it just started,” her head tilting upwards towards the cloudless night sky.

Three more steps, his human instinct was making sure that he was keeping safe enough distance from the unknown woman, Oliver came to a stop, his gaze lifting up towards the sky, his stance locked and steady.

He had never seen such a scene. And it didn’t take much for Oliver to realize that it was getting extremely difficult for him to keep his defense position. His heart was being tugged towards the rare cosmic show of shooting stars. His grip with the cocked elbow started to loosen its tension and his chin began lifting up with its own free will. Beautiful, Oliver felt his lips part, his eyes taking in the breathtaking view.

There was a ring of harmonic crystal chime. Oliver darted his eyes, ducking his head down, and tried to pinpoint where the sound was coming from.

“I knew you’d enjoy it,” the woman said, taking a couple of steps to her left. Under her long dress, she was bare feet. There was another chime: ethereal and crisp-n-clear. It was coming from her dress.

Oliver knitted his eyebrows. How? Because there was nothing that would make that resonance on her dress. To the crown prince’s eyes, the garment was just fabric.

“Who are you?” Oliver asked.

She shrugged her shoulder nonchalantly, “I have so many names,” and sucked in a drawn-out breath through her softly parted lips. Her face looked as though she held no opinion on the matter, “None that I particularly developed a liking. What you call me matters not, Oliver.”

“Not your name,” Oliver lifted a sharp upward glance, “I asked who you are,” the blond stated firmly, deciding to swallow the burning question of how she knew his name.

The woman hummed with a pleased smile.

“Tell me who you are or I will make sure you will–,” the human warned.

The woman waved her two fingers in mid-air and the dagger in the royal blood’s hand glowed hot. The prince didn’t have a choice but to let the small weapon go of his grip.

“Witch!!”

She chuckled with her throat, “Hardly.”

Why she looked so entertained, Oliver couldn’t understand.

“Then, by gods, who the hell are you? Where is this place?”

“Now, now, for as long as I’ve lived, this isn’t a time or a place to invoke such,” she mused, her voice peculiarly cajoling, “Mmm~, I’m here but I’m not here,” she bobbed her head lightly to side-to-side, “and it’s somewhere then a nowhere.”

“Is this Chiara’s doing? Are you one of her death dealers?”

At her name, the woman burst out into ‘ha, ha, ha’ laughs and this went on for a good minute or two. Oddly, the way she laughed was like that of a young woman: not even of age. Something a barely teenager would sound like: giggly and innocent.

“Poor Chiara,” she placed her palm right below her chest, gathering herself, “being a zealot comes at a price. Though her industriousness has always been commendable, she is no match for William and his sorts,” her tone a strange mixture of sympathy and ruefulness, “besides, we all are trying to live out our own lives based on our instincts and desires.” And she took a sharp inhale through her nose, “If it all matters to you, Oliver, you can call me Vimini.”

“If you are not a witch or a death dealer, who are you? and what have you done with Elio?”

She simply hummed, “no pleasantries, no greetings? I thought a royal blood such as yourself are armed with court etiquettes and impeccable manners.”

“Answer my question!”

Vimini closed her eyes, tilting her head a little, and took in a drawn out lungful of breath with a look of a parent who was getting tired of her child’s petulance.

“Who I am should not matter as much to you when you do not even know _why_ you are here,” Vimini raised her open palm with her mouth shaping a soft ‘ah-ah!’ before the human had a chance to repeat his demand, “your Elio is safe. No, he is not here,” and gave a gentle head shake.

His eyes must have adjusted to his surroundings. Oliver was able to see more clearly.

“Why did you bring me here?”

Vimini huffed out a series of breathy chuckles under her breath, “you’ve got it backwards, my dear prince. What do you remember?” and she sat down what appeared to be a platform made out of pillows that wasn’t there a second ago.

Flashes of memories that of Oliver and Elio being ambushed played in Oliver’s head. Elio stepped in front of Oliver and took three crossbow arrows on his back, protecting him.

“No, no, no,” Oliver remembered cursing under his breath. Two arrows pierced through Elio’s chest, one on his upper arm. “This is going to hurt,” he told Elio whose body was vibrating fiercely with pain and shock.

Oliver standing in Vimini’s place (or wherever this place was) looked down at his hands, the skin of his palms remembering the sensation of snapping the arrows one at a time as quickly as his could. Just as urgently, using the hilt of his sword, the blond remembered his hands reaching for Elio’s neck shackle and breaking it off from his neck.

“Mmm,” Vimini’s hum rang right at the moment to bring him out of his memory. Because Oliver remembered asking for help in his head.

._._._.

It was supposed to be a pick up after having some refreshments. Yet, Oliver decided to stay a while and have Elio soak in as much of the towering library of books and scrolls. The way his face lit up and his expression mild yet in awe of the sheer knowledge the place was holding. Two spoke of Greek and Roman philosophers. The poems written by a female poet named Sappho. The ancient texts hand-copied, one careful stroke after another, by the residing monks who had traveled to the far away land in the East. Carefully drawn pictures of jewelry, garments, and culture of foreign lands with detailed descriptions. Just by watching Elio marveling at them made Oliver fill with such enjoyment.

“Sire,” a scribe cautiously interrupted, “it’s almost sunset.”

Though the spring was a couple of moon-th away, the crown prince was aware they have to hurry back as only a couple of hours of daylight left.

._._._.

“…Am I dead?”

Vimini breathed through her nose. Oliver didn’t remember sitting down yet he found himself in a wooden chair in front of her.

“Do you wish it to be?”

Oliver blinked.

Vimini sucked in an overlong breath through her nose. Why she appeared as if she was lamenting, was very strange to Oliver. Someone so young, someone who has a look of an innocent youth should not have that: a quintessence of someone who had lived many life times.

“I’d ask you to come and join with me but you will listen to your basal fear and doubt instead,” Vimini began, “oh, and I wouldn’t touch them if I were you,” added with a lift of her chin as Oliver was eyeing the fluorescent bugs illuminating their surroundings.

Oliver retracted at the comment.

“You can sense it already,” she smiled, “even though you are in a mortal form, you can sense the things most others of your kind cannot,” and she picked up a little knife sheathed in a cover that appeared like it was carved animal bone. With a mild expression, she stabbed the back of the nearest glowing bug. A screeching hiss spat out from it (which made Oliver screw his eyes shut as its shrill pierced his ear drums) and the hidden claws and the scorpion like tail came out from its small oval shaped body, fiercely wrapping the dagger gnawing its teeth against the blade.

Oliver swallowed hard. Vimini lifted her gaze and gave a little shrug of her shoulders, “Carnivorous,” and hummed low, “they light themselves bright for one purpose.” She turned the handle of the blade, observing how it moved and gnashed its teeth, “it is especially drawn to the warm blood. Taste of flesh,” She inclined her head with an eerie tilt of an angle before she whispered, something that sounded like an old language. A single line of sizzling smoke let out and the impaled bug turned to charcoal black.

“I suggest you stop being cryptic and answer my questions.”

She pulled the edges of her face and gave him a grin. Oliver stared at her as she simply filled her lungs.

“Your Elio is not here, you are not dead, no, I’m not a witch, this is not Chiara’s doing, I am not going to kill you,” she offered calmly and smoothed her dress a little on her right side as if they were having a conversation over a cake and tea, “have I missed anything?”

“Why am I here?”

“Hm,” she exhaled through her nose, “everything will make sense soon enough but–, you _wished_ it to come here.”

Oliver made a ‘that’s impossible’ face at her statement.

She bobbed her head a little with a soft grin, “well, your future self does.”

Oliver narrowed his eyes. Vimini’s lips parted a little and what looked like a gloom dawned on her face.

“As I said, you already have a sense. A knowing. About a certain fate. Of you, your father, your people. And… your Elio,” she took in a soft breath, “it is unfortunate that your future will come to its becoming but I am not in a habit of granting an audience to mortals, let alone a future that I cannot see.”

As she walked along the outline of where they were standing, nor the cave nor the open field but something merged in one like a dreamscape, a series of children giggling echoed.

“Baba Yaga,” Oliver's jaw dropped.

Long held regional legend told that Baba Yaga lived in a hut deep in the forest and ruled over the elements, who appeared as a deformed or ferocious-looking old woman. Her hut seemed to have a personality of its own and could move about on its extra-large chicken legs. While some folklore said, she played a maternal role and had associations with forest wildlife. Others, Baba Yaga commonly appeared as either a donor, villain, or may be altogether ambiguous. The notorious of them all was Baba Yaga as a carnivorous child snatcher.

Though not too often, when a visitor entered her hut, Baba Yaga asked them whether they came of their own free will, or they were sent. There were tales of seeing teeth gnawed bones that were erected as her hut’s fence. But, no one actually has seen or met her—or lived to tell the first-hand story.

“Mmm, I prefer being the one who pulls the misery out of children than the one I am to do, with you,” Vimini said so nonplussed.

“You eat children,” Oliver seethed, his shaky breath almost hissing out of his nose.

Vimini huffed, “that’s what you mortals are led to believe while I carry the souls of tortured youngs onto the bliss of promised paradise from the hardship they were cast into. What remain after my deeds are done, well—,” she looked around the room and suddenly the glow of the oval creatures intensified for a moment as if they understood what she was saying.

“Heed my warning, it will not be what it is promised. Yet you will take the offer,” without a blink, her eyes stared.

“You are not making any sense.”

Vimini chuckled low, ducking her head a little. And in a blink of an eye, something shifted.

What just happened? Oliver thought, completely baffled, she was over there, now she is here. To his dismay, Oliver could not move as Vimini placed the tip of her fingers at the middle of his forehead, giving a light tap. And his mind swirled; this time in the reverse direction of the whirlwind.

He was back right at the moment where Elio’s mare took a sudden dive forward, catapulting Elio’s body forward. The young slave let go of his grip from the tresses, turning his upper body towards Oliver’s direction who was riding his stallion in full speed, parallel to the mare in distress. His breath rough and uneven, Oliver’s heart sank, his arm stretch beyond its normal length, desperately trying to take hold of Elio. Their fingers were just about to touch was when Oliver heard Vimini’s voice.

“You were never a person to believe in super natural power or a deity. Although being a fateful son of a king, you’ve followed the traditions and fatefully executed duties that were asked and expected of you.”

Oliver-now in the cave with Vimini was witnessing a suspended moment of his past. The Oliver-past and Elio came into a pause, suspended in motion of fraction of time-n-space, and they spun in slow motion (frozen right at that moment) in front of him.

“It wasn’t difficult for me to hear your heart-felt wish. Forests have ears, Oliver, even if you did not explicitly send your bidding to anyone.”

And Oliver-past’s own inner voice echoed distantly yet so clearly. The Oliver-now didn’t even recall thinking (or wishing) those words.

“and when it’s time, you only need ask. No matter the place, no matter the circumstances,” added Vimini, her voice warm yet so ominous.

In a drawn out speed, Oliver-now took in how his and Elio’s hand came into a grip as the Oliver-past let go of the reign. A sharp whipping sound flew from his right as if a rope with weighted objects hung in the either of its ends spinning in mid-air. Oliver was way too familiar with that sound. A bolas. Its nimble throw was undoubtedly aimed at the mare’s front legs. Oliver-past’s heart somersaulted with a heavy lurch. In a split second, Elio’s horse came to an abrupt halt and her hind quarters swung upright in an unnatural plumb, as her head and front hurled forward-n-in to the ground. She neighed in panic before her body cartwheel-dove down. His stallion also keeled over from Oliver’s unexpected dismount, narrowly missing the two and collapsed on the woodland floor, barely two paces from where Elio and Oliver’s body took to the ground. Oliver-now could see the bandits gathering around them, two going for Elio’s mare thrashing in shock and pain, on her back. Oliver’s stallion, thankfully, got back up and whinnied as he bucked up on his hind legs. The Oliver-past was unconscious, though his grip tight on Elio’s hand. Oliver-now felt the heavy urge that he must do something. Yet, his sight zoomed into their clutched hands. In Oliver-now’s relief, Elio began opening his eyes. He wanted to say something to him, reach for his face. The depth of desperation engulfed Oliver-now’s entire being.

“Oh, and _never_ let go that hand,” Vimini said with the most tender smile he’d ever seen in his life. A whoosh of wind blew over him and Oliver felt Vimini’s face right next to his cheek. She was now standing behind his shoulders, ghosting her cheek against his.

“Now,” she whispered, as the frozen ethereal moment in front of him dissipated into million particles, Oliver felt a lighting strike on his temple with her voice thundering with a boom,

“WAKE UP!”

.

–x–x–x–

Oliver gasped himself awake. His forehead glistening with cold sweat beads, his hands clenched.

“Sire–,” the familiar voice rang as the royal blood felt two firm palms pressing his shoulders down.

“Michel,” Oliver gulped down a sharp breath.

“Yes, sire, easy,” replied the old physician, “easy–,” reaching for the cloth that fell from Oliver’s forehead.

“…Where…? Where am I?” Oliver stammered looking around, a bit disoriented and dazed.

“You are safe, sire,” Michel offered with calm voice, his hand supporting the upper back of Oliver. And he explained that Oliver was in his village house.

All his years he had known Michel, Oliver never had a pleasure of visiting his own home. And he remembered.

“…Elio,” the blond asked urgently, “where is Elio? Is he safe?”

Michel’s eyes formed warm smile lines as he dipped his head in a gentle nod. And wordlessly, the old man turned his torso opening Oliver’s line of sight.

At the corner of this cozy place, a curl-up full-fledged werewolf was breathing soundlessly in his sleep.

“The very first transformation can be very taxing,” Michel enlightened the prince. And before the royal blood had a chance to utter the words, “he is safe. He is well, sire.”

Oliver dumped out his chest, his heavy lids falling over his eyes.

“Thank the gods that it was a full moon,” Michel added, “young Elio even made sure to bring the books and your horse back to castle unharmed.”

.

* * *

[ Chapter Deleted Scene ]

Thud!

It felt like bone-crushing under his weight. But Oliver was at least happy of the fact that he was holding Elio hand. His head dizzy, Oliver was barely able to gather his noble steed bucking itself upright, pawing at the ground, thrashing his head so he wouldn’t be captured. Go~, Oliver wanted to command his charger yet the word didn’t pass beyond his throat.

On his left peripheral, Oliver noticed Elio gathering his body up in pain. So, without giving a second thought, Oliver reached for his pocket and fumbles his fingers, trying to get something out. Oliver’s stallion stumping in front of them back-n-forth, Elio managed to kneel in front of Oliver.

His fingers failed him. The royal blood cursed under his breath and rolls over to his other shoulder. Elio said something to him but Oliver only heard a high pitched ring in his ear while his grip finally succeeded to grab onto one of his daggers. He pulled it out and stretched his arm toward Elio’s neck shackle. The bottom of his small weapon poppod out and Oliver tried to bang it against the hinge. Oliver believed he was telling Elio what he was trying to do. To Elio, only ruff grunted are heard. It took two or three missed attempts for Elio to get what Oliver was doing. So he took the dagger from the prince’s hand and aligned the cylindrical protrusion before he pushed the metal rod that held the shackle hinge together. The three pronged restraint fell to the ground with a heavy clunk.

Go, save yourself, Oliver mouthed to Elio as his eyes roll up and over. On the long slopes over the field, his eyes could catch a white full moon rising in the East, the sky still blue grey.

Elio transformed into a werewolf and the puncture wound closed up as if something was searing them close. The wolf let out a small whimper and a grunt as he rolled his shoulders one side at a time. This was the first time Oliver saw Elio in wolf form.

“…Magnificent,” Oliver raptured breathlessly and loses his consciousness.

With a snarl and a firm crinkle on his upper lip, the wolf shook body from his nose and it rippled from his head along down his neck, his spine, and all the way down to his tail. Then, he leaped out from the safety of Oliver's stallion and began attacking the bandits without any mercy, ripping them into pieces.

–x–x–x–

Vimini’s voice ringing in his head like a thunder clap, Oliver cracked his eyes open. In his view, he saw werewolf with a bloody mouth.

“uh…. Elio?”

The wolf blinked gazing right into the human’s eyes before lowering his head, showing submission.

“How incredible,” Oliver swallowed hard, “so, you still understand me.”

The wolf snorted briefly. It’s not safe, his eyes said.

“Yes,” Oliver nodded his mouth dry, “yes, let us get back.”

–x–x–x–

“But… why didn’t he change back?”

“Ahh~,” Michel smiled warmly, “young Elio doesn’t seem to trust me as much, sire. He may appear sleeping,” he gave a little pause, “I am certain his keen ears have been listening to us making sure that I wasn’t doing anything untoward you, highness.”

The werewolf’s ear flicked a little, though his eyes stayed closed. Michel let out a mused hum before disappearing behind the thick linen curtain with the water basin.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> –Baba Yaga [Russian: Баба-Яга, romanized: Baba Yaga]: a supernatural being or a trio of sisters of the same name in Slavic or Eastern European folklore (fairytale).  
> .  
> With continued and relentless self-care and self-love, let us strive for winning the war, not the illogical tribe-serving battles that were set (thrown) by those who we believed that should have had our back. Let us be smart and hone mind-body-soul to thought-out response as beings with higher brain functions, _not_ react with our basal instincts. Let us pull ourselves out of the cortisol-n-stress hormone addiction and center our physiology-n-mind in its natural alignment. I shall hold your spirit, your dreams, your heart beyond age, gender, race, time, and place, if you'd let me. Do please stay healthy and keep open-hearted: mind, body, and soul.  
> .  
> As always, \Thank you/ for reading (for those who understood-n-got this chapter *my hat's off to you*), your time and interest.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oliver tells Elio of his past. And Elio instinctively knows that Oliver isn’t telling him the whole truth. Unbeknownst to them, Micole makes a surprise visit to Oliver’s cabin.

Marzia was surprised; she never expected to be summoned by none other than the famous court physician, first thing in the morning. Though a kind and wise (as she was not personally acquainted with this well-reputed man), his instruction was clear: ‘come alone and be discrete.’ How strange it was to be beckoned to his village home, not the palace. Let alone his request to bring along Elio’s garments, including a pair of his old shoes. Did something happen to Elio? Marzia thought. But ever since the crown prince had unofficially appointed her best friend as his man servant, any reason to visit him was more than welcome. So right after finishing her early dawn chores, she went to Perlmans’ right away before heading to the address she was given. Of course, the Perlmans were taken aback as well. But she just made up a little story that Elio had sent her to fetch the items.

“Ahh–,” a warm voice rang from Marzia’s right. She was standing in front of the old healer’s house, not knowing what to do — whether to knock or wait until the designated time she was given. She had never done this before. So when the voice greeted her, Marzia felt relieved.

Michel was stepping towards his residence with his physician’s bag slung over his shoulder, “right on time. Have you eaten?”

Marzia’s head reacted first, in a quick side swish swish of her hair, “n–no,” and she tried offering a smile but what came out was awkwardly crooked contortion of her face.

“Come, let us get inside,” Michel offered a doting smile, extending his hand and led her forward.

.

The place was like a house within a house. The front of the well-sized home appeared to be converted for patient care. The floor showed the remnants of wooden cot that used to sit in a neat row.

“Four generations of medicine women and men lived through this house,” Michel offered fondly as he observed the way Marzia was looking around, “there used to be double-deck beds on this side, singles over on the other.”

After what appeared to be the prep room (racks of herbs that were now almost empty, the shelves for medical supplies such as towel and gauzes, and so on) behind the thick curtain, a thick wooden door opened to what she could only describe as a personal area. It was very different from the rooms they just walked through. A wall of empty book cases and a small kitchen area, with just as small living room, greeted them. Over on the fire, a pot was simmering.

“A family recipe,” Michel said, reaching for dark clay bowls on the shelves, on his left, “I trust that you brought the famous Perlman loaves?”

Marzia blinked before she nodded her head.

“Good girl.”

Something about him made Marzia to voluntarily offer her assistance. It didn’t feel like she was pressured or obligated to do so. The strange sense of familiarity this respected man exuded simply drew the desire out of her to act on her feet. She glanced at how many bowls he took out: four. Her head tilted a little. But instead of asking why, Marzia held her tongue and took out four soup spoons and four cups.

“Two trays, please,” Michel requested after he opened the lid of the pot. The plume of warm steam rose over his face and he let out a satisfied hum at the aroma.

Her lips made ‘oh~?’ but no sound came out. She blinked a couple of times and gathered herself before bunching up the front of her skirt to fetch two pitchers.

“Thank you,” Michel dipped his head, “I happened to have gotten a fresh bucket from the castle square before dawn. It’s right outside that door.”

Marzia tucked her chin and pushed the side door open. To her surprise, the backyard gave off unusual vibe; of someone hastily wiped and tidied away the unexpected disturbance. The cobbled stones appeared as though they were washed: _very recently_ (with slush and slush of bucketful of water poured over. No one does that in the middle of winter!) It was still damp in several places while the rims and edges held the stark evidence of extended disuse. (In other words, not a thorough cleaning that often resulted from a planned or done with care-n-time) Her eyebrows drew close together.

“Young miss?” the voice called from inside.

Right, Marzia gathered herself turning her head to locate the half-moon wooden water tub every house in the castle has at the back of their property. She pressed the lip of the pitcher in an angle, guiding the cold water to cascade in.

.

She didn’t ask why. It was as if all would be explained very soon. Because the way Michel requested her to carry in a tray for two inside the bedroom. So she lifted the tray: two bowls of soup, a pitcher, and two cups. How extraordinary it was to find the old physician taking such care. Each warm bowl was covered by a small saucer on top.

“You and I will dine out here,” he added as he extended his open palm, gesturing her to go ahead.

Marzia only blinked before she pushed the door quietly. As soon as she opened the door, Marzia gasped. There was a werewolf curled up on the bed next to the crown prince. She almost dropped the tray. The werewolf perked up at the clattering sound of the pottery.

“…Elio?”

The four legged animal’s ears fanned to the side. Then, the jowl relaxed, showing its pink tongue.

“…You… you had your–, wow!”

His ears pointed forward and his head turned to the still asleep Oliver.

“Oh,” Marzia pulled her shoulders, “sorry,” said in a quieter voice.

Elio got up as soundlessly and motionlessly as he could and descended from the bed slowly, his front legs first then the hind ones. Marzia only shook her head at how delicate his movement was. When he came close, she set the tray on the table in the corner and knelt down.

“Wow–,” she was speechless. Having never seen a werewolf before, Marzia didn’t know what to say or think. Because seeing lycans were usual norm but not a full-fledged werewolf. Her eyes marveled at the state of Elio’s coat how shiny and smooth they appeared in her eyes. Not to mention the long firm sturdy legs with large mound of well-formed paws.

The werewolf let out a small concise huff.

“Oh, right,” Marzia snapped herself out of the daze-like admiration and began filling him in of what had been happening in her life. That she found someone to marry, that she didn’t need to be turned. Perlmans were doing well, that they miss him, so on.

His hazel eyes glinted softly.

“Oh, right, here,” she snapped out of being mesmerized and slung off her rucksack.

In it, there was a set of Elio’s clothes and a neck shackle Michel asked to carry in along. The werewolf dumped out a regretful huff through its nostrils. Because the message was clear; being born a werewolf must stay as a secret. Him being lankier than most other villagers who were turned into lycans, he still had a chance to live out his life in human form as a neck-shackled servant (well, slave). It seemed Michel understood what must be done for the best, for everyone involved. The royal physician eliciting Marzia’s help was a testament itself. Because having her be the messenger, Michel was conveying and reminding young Elio of this abominable, painful, yet inescapable reality. Not just about the fact that Elio’s apprehension or mistrust toward the old man, but through her what core matter at hand would get across much cordially and gently. Especially considering Elio still in the werewolf form.

The werewolf's throat rumbled, his head cocking in an angel, showing his displeasure. That was when Oliver stirred.

“I’ll be in the next room,” Marzia whispered back, rummaging her empty bag back into her grip, and pushed herself back upright.

She tossed her head lightly to the side toward the table, “make sure you eat before it gets cold,” and soundlessly left the room.

The werewolf gazed at the shackle. His ears pinned back and the ridge of long nose crinkled deep in an inaudible growl. But he knew it was the only way. The whiskers on both sides of his mouth stiffened, before they relaxed back. Elio took a look around the room and spotted a partition (the typical changing corner every household has in their chamber). With another sigh, he opened his jaw and bunched up his clothes, together with the shackle, into his mouth. His tail was down dragging the very tip of its end on the way. Once he sequestered himself behind the panels there, Elio felt his heartbeat speeding up. He was feeling unsure, a bit afraid. Because, since it was in the heat of the moment, Elio didn’t recall what it felt like to transform into his current form, last night. The werewolf screwed his eyes shut. With a huge sigh, he dug his claws into the floor, gripping onto the ground tight. He grew up hearing village folks sharing their stories; the first time is always the hardest. His heart thumping loudly in his ears, his head churning with chaotic thoughts, the coat pulled back to its maximum, as every bone of his body started to crack.

Oh, the excruciating pain. It was indescribable.

The way his sinews and muscles retracted back and tore open to reform into a human anatomy felt like he was being scalded and flayed apart alive. He finally understood why most of lycan-venon-infected villagers in their human state stop reacting to the silver blade lash punishments. No matter how much those thick sharp vanes sliced and whipped into their body, nothing compared. The pain of transformation was much _much_ worse. The werewolf tried his best to hold down the noise. But a yelp and a cry escaped as he writhed and twisted. The long jowl crackled and snapped in multiple places as his wolf skull split open from the inside, to rearrange itself into that of a human cranium. All of his werewolf hair shed out of his body at once from its follicle. Everything hurt; everything burned. Please, by gods, Elio wailed desperately in his head.

.

Oliver jolted awake with a start and found himself alone, with added smell of warm soup in the air. That was when his ears picked up a strangled yelp coming from the other side of the room. He kicked the cover off of his body and pushed himself off the bed, only to clasp on the floor. Oliver gritted his teeth as he got his wounded-body half-upright. Clutching his mid-torso, he managed to rush over to the back of the partition. Behind there, he found naked Elio curled up in a fetal position, his skin turning from the angry shed of dark red to softer pink, surrounded by a pile of sluffed wolf’s hair in an elongated circle. He was trembling.

“…Elio–,” Oliver called, his voice horse, him barely able to hold himself up.

Sure enough, Oliver too succumbed to the pain of his own body and folded himself down near Elio, his arm reaching for him. He wanted to comfort him. When the royal heir’s trembling hand managed to make contact with Elio’s back, Elio’s skin felt too warm to his palm, as if he was having a fever. Oliver maneuvered himself with everything he had. Yet, his body failed to obey him. His movement labored and sluggish, Oliver persevered and was able to lean his forehead over on Elio’s temple. A shaky sigh left the human’s body involuntarily. No one has to go through this, Oliver cursed in his head.

“…I’m…I’m okay…,” Elio, barely more than a whisper, braved the words. Though he knew that both were aware it wasn’t true.

Oliver’s unsteady hand tightened into a grip around Elio’s body, as if to tell him he wasn’t alone, as if to tell him, ‘I have you.’ Two stayed, lying on the cold floor, for a while; until Elio’s body stopped trembling. Until the pain of reverse transformation dissipated, until his skin became tad too cool.

“I’m sorry,” was the first thing Elio told Oliver when his head cleared up from the transformation fog.

Oliver shook his head, pulling the edge of his lips to a smile but the pain was a little too much. So the prince coughed instead. Elio sat up quickly, knitting his eyebrows.

“…It’s alright. I’m alright,” Oliver tried to assure Elio. Even a white lie was doomed to beget another.

With the help of Elio, the royal prince fared to lean his back against the wall. The young slave quickly pulled his body inward, suddenly blushing at the state of his nakedness, as if that would change much of the level of his exposed body. Oliver chortled a series of slow laughs. Elio’s werewolf ears (even in human form), to his surprise, picked up the rich note of Oliver’s tenor and the vibration of his chest cavity.

“In the battle, there is very little privacy,” Oliver meant it as he’d seen naked man’s body before, to assure Elio he shouldn’t mind. Yet, he couldn’t help himself from noticing the difference in Elio’s body. Compared to the evening when Oliver had him brought up to his chamber to personally tend to Elio’s lash wounds, his physique changed. The muscles became thicker and more defined. The breadth of his shoulder wider and more firm. The prince’s throat waved without him intending to. What a gorgeous body it became.

Elio swiftly turned around and pulled the shirt over his head, before he arrange his body hurriedly to fish his legs into his slacks. A breath hitched in Oliver’s chest. The tight round taught buttocks peeking under his shirt was a thing of beauty. The crown prince felt his cheeks immediately heating up. And he dropped his gaze away from Elio’s direction, quietly clearing his throat. Without getting a chance to calm his body from reacting (despite his injury), a tiny puff of air blew over his face. Apparently, Elio (now dressed and decent) came back over and knelt next to him as quickly as he could. Oliver’s heart was drumming aloud in his ears. But he kept his face as straight as he could. When he lifted his gaze, Oliver could only gasp. On Elio’s open palms sat a neck shackle. It was a wordless request, asking Oliver to put it on him. A mixed feeling; one: the bitter truth of Elio being enslaved because of the forces beyond their control, two: the very meaning of Elio submitting himself to him, as if Oliver was the one and only who can claim him — a willing supplication. Two stark contradicting emotions collided at a full speed, right in the middle of his chest.

.

***

**Oliver’s Cabin**

The only thing moving is Elio’s shoulders: cycles of light rise and fall.

The only sound is from the cast iron stove: the muffled crackling sound of wood being burnt and the soft whirls of air circling within.

Oliver made a on-the-spot decision to give Elio the very dry (and heavily fleshed out) version of their relationship. Keeping his emotion in check, his face expression beyond that of a poker face, incredibly matter-of-fact and stoic, as if he was telling someone else’s story, Oliver finished his rendition of their past. That Oliver was aware Elio was a part of royal servants; that he had only met him in passing.

“So..., were you a soldier before you uh…,” Elio trails off, after briefly lifting his casted gaze off his curled in toes.

Oliver blinks to substitute as an answer. Yet, Elio does not fail to catch that it was neither yes nor no. He squares his jaws and proceeds to gnawing on the inside of his cheek. Elio suddenly feels uncomfortable. Why am I feeling angry? Why do I feel like he isn’t telling me the truth? If he had known me distantly and transitorily, how does he know that I had my first transformation on the Wolf’s moon?

Elio’s head begins to fill with questions he didn’t think or imagine he could. He starts to feel something searing hot coiling in the pit of his stomach. Oliver, sitting across from him, observes him: his face indecipherable and still.

“… I– I need some air,” Elio stammers, his voice tinged in thick apprehension.

Oliver’s throat waves slow, “alright,” and takes a slow breath through his nose. The vampire gets up soundlessly and ever so gracefully without trying. And he goes to his coat rack and takes hold of one of the jackets hanging on the wooden knobs.

Though his chin drawn close to his chest, Elio tips his gaze up rather scornfully, (why? Elio too is puzzled at his own mystifying emotion) and pulls the blanket closer.

His face expression and demeanor unchanged, Oliver does not say anything but takes another inaudible breath before hanging up the jacket back where he found it.

.

Just as he suspected, the flurries of blizzard starts as if on cue, once two men step out of the cabin. Strangely, it lacks the usual voraciousness. Rather, it curtains like a giant soft white sheet being draped over the whole world around. It feels like a soundless blessing from the sky, calming everything and everyone. Elio lifts his head, his curls slowly falling back. The large flakes land quietly and gently on his pale face and perches over his long chocolate lashes ever so lightly.

Oliver’s nostrils flare, the rim of his eyes turning red. The memory of his past overlaps in front of his very eyes. The very one Elio taught him how to smell the snow. The very sight of him marveling at the snow; Elio only covered in his blanket, a morning after their first night together. How long has it been? He reminisces, swallowing down his tears. That’s when he hears the voice he wished he has forgotten.

“Hello, Husband.”

.

Oliver steps in front of Elio. It is an instinctual move; didn't need to think. Though executed suavely, there is no mistake in sudden shift in Oliver's demeanor. Elio too senses that something is very off. He almost snarls. Luckily, Oliver tempers his sinking heart that the uninvited ousider doesn’t appeared to have notice exactly _who_ is with him. _You became complacent with years, Micole_ , Oliver mulls it in his head.

“It’s very unlike you to keep a pet,” Micole begins, her lips twisting into an eerie smile, “have you grown lonely?”

“What are you doing here?” Oliver says flatly, making sure to convey she is not welcomed here.

“Well, you know~, we’ve been tracking a lead,” her nonchalance is detestable.

Oliver narrows his eyes microscopically, his face showing disinterest. They stand there without further words for a while, tension hanging high. Micole knows that Oliver isn't the vampire to be messed with. A century of their shared past has taught her a lesson or two. Though it has been a long while since two last had contact, Oliver has a pretty good idea as to why she came here. Yet, Micole coming here alone means that this very visit is for a pure expedition. They don't actually have a solid lead, the immortal concludes in his head. So, Oliver stands his ground, as there is no need for him to be hospitable.

“There was a report of a werewolf siting a few days ago,” Micole tosses it fishing for any reaction.

Ah... Oliver thinks in his head: his suspicion came true. There is a strange sense of relief in Oliver; something verging in the line of his superiority over Michole still holding true. Why he ever doubted this, Oliver would never know. Yet again, Oliver has the ‘does that affect me how?’ look on his face.

The wind blows without a sound and the direction of the blizzard changes. Thankfully, the light flurry bears from Oliver’s left to right. The blond tempers his sigh.

“You seem uneased,” Micole cocks her head, thoroughly intrigued, trying to find a way in.

What surprises him is, right at that very moment, that Oliver feeling the pressure of Elio's fingertips against his skin between his shoulder blades. Barely there and timid but definitely his touch. Something Elio used to do at the height of tension during the night patrol; a wordless reassurance, _I have your back._ Oliver sucks in an audible breath. How incredible it is that his body remembers all those times Elio stood side-by-side fighting off lycans and bandits. Whether Elio is remembering what that gesture means or not, it doesn't matter to him. The blond immediately feels emboldened.

“Must I say out loud as to why that is?” Oliver glares back. He means how their tumultuous relationship had ended.

“Even still? After all these years?” Michole says as if she is shocked, poking fun at their own falling-out.

“I am going to say this only once. You are trespassing. You came into my territory without a notice or my explicit invitation,” Oliver warns sternly.

“Aw~, not even for an old time sake? Hmm? for your little wifey?”

Oliver sets his jaws, staring down at her with ‘do I look like I am in the mood to entertain?’

She scoffs, “fine~,” begrudgingly in a tone ‘you do you’ turning on her heals, “but the law is the law, Oliver. Even if you have denounced your legions to our clan.”

It is a warning, no doubt, that befriending or harboring a werewolf is still against what Chiara declared.

.

––––––––––––––––––––––––---–––––---–––––---

[ Chapter Deleted Scenes ]

The wooden door closed behind her and she couldn’t help but to sigh. Michel ducked his chin a little with a soft smile; a kind that could be described as all knowing, all understanding father’s smile. The old physician pulls the wooden stool out to extend his invitation for Marzia to come and seated at the table. While she was in the room, Michel warmed up the bread she brought by the fire.

“I’ve never thought of that,” Marzia mused with a genuine surprise, looking down at the lightly charred crust that gave out nuttier aroma of the loaf. Michel only smiled.

Why she thought it was unexpected when the first spoonful of the soup hit her tongue was a mystery to her. She could taste lots of different root vegetables in a right mixture and the flavor exploding with added spices (garlic, oregano, and black pepper) was so wonderful.

“This is delicious,” Marzia moaned out a satisfied hum, putting another spoonful into her mouth right after.

That was when a series of sound in distress and chaotic noise of someone collapsing onto the floor came from behind the closed door. Her head turned towards the direction as her butt lifted from the chair.

Michel’s warm hand reached over promptly, stopping her in the mid-motion from rushing over.

“But–,” she tried to reason, deep frown of concern on her face.

Without words, Michel shook his head slowly. Marzia’s lips parted in protest and she took in a sharp breath. But, she understood what the wise medicine man meant. So she settled back down and lifted another spoonful of hearty warm soup.

––––––––––––––––––––––––---–––––---–––––---

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Behind the scenes ] (in my head) a Chibi Elio sweeps up a pile of his own shed with a broom. I know, I know, it’s a trope-mood-kill but any amount of shedded hair does not mop itself up or magically disappear, you know. *giggle*  
> .  
> –Just for a honest disclosure, there will be a canon compliant relationship between Oliver and Micole. (well~~, not entirely accurately, nor as in the true form of the man-and-wife but... you get the gist. hehe) I bet those of you with black-belt in fanfic kungfu have already caught the whiff of their unhealthy destructive relationship.  
> .  
> As always, \Thank You/ for reading, your time, and interest.  
> From my genuine heart to yours, please continue your self-care and self-love. Keep your heart open and align your mind-body-soul. No matter how loud or how crazy the cacophony of outer noise increase, you hold the power and the strength within. Light up your heart, ignite your soul.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elio’s condition takes a turn for the worse after Micole’s unwelcomed appearance (though however it may have been brief). A bit more history of medieval ElliOllie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ a little note from moi ]   
>  …yes… I know… the set-up for this AU is giving me just as much... you know… anxiety and headache. *deep sigh* But when me-brain takes a helm, I don’t have much say in it. And I blame all on my lack-there-of skills and finesse as a shameless AO3 uploader for any wonky story progression. and of course, the usual any typographical mistakes and smattering of other things I commit heinously (not at all fishing for anything, I swear. I’m just that self-aware, tis all) I even came to a point where I asked, “ehrr… where are you going with this?” and of course, there was no straight answer from me-brain. *chibi plop onto the floor, miserably* ahh–––eeee…. *long sigh*   
>  Anywho—, at least, having never a been prolific one (drabbler?? contributor??) in this fandom, I hope a short interval between updates this week be a little reprieve… *crossing my fingers* *wiping the sweat off my forehead*    
> 

Elio is thrashing. The fact that he can exert this much power in his current condition baffles Oliver.

**A Slight Rewind**

Once the long shadow of Micole faded, Elio confronted him.

“What are you not telling me?” Elio chested up, “what– what was that I was doing that made you…,” he stammered not being able to finish his question. Calm? Better? Grounded? Soothed? Elio's mind frenetically searched for the right word but he couldn't put his finger on why he had reached out to Oliver in such a way only a few moments ago. More importantly, the werewolf could not comprehend his body’s reaction. It was as if his body and mind were cleaved in half clean alienated from one another. And even without him trying to, his body somehow was operating with the unconscious program he used to do and a knee-jerk reaction bubbled over, persistently and chaotically.

“And who was she?” Elio pressed on with intense accusation. Why he was feeling severely wounded, Elio couldn’t understand. He was jealous (yes, that's the one: mind-blindingly hot iron right out of the fire jealousy, his voice confirmed in his head), “why did she call you ‘husband’?” But why though? he asked himself.

Oliver opened his mouth to say something, a concerned frown deep across his forehead, but not a bleep of sound came out.

“When did you know? W– were you luring me to get close to you so you could grab a chance to do this? while I’m injured? Huh?” Elio roared out his rage towards Oliver, relentlessly that he himself didn’t understand the origin. Is he some kind of werewolf hunter? when did he become one? Elio's head whirled and his stomach lurched.

“Please–, Elio,” Oliver beseeched.

That was when Elio shoved his palms hard on Oliver’s broad chest. He wasn’t holding back.

“Uft,” Oliver’s body retreated backwards at the heavy blow.

Elio felt he was rupturing from inside. The steady layers of plush thick snow flurries landing on his skin were the only relief, yet they weren’t nearly enough. In fact, the snowflakes were evaporating as soon as they made contact with Elio’s skin. The werewolf was literally burning up. And Oliver’s vampire-senses caught on to it fast.

“Elio, please, you need to calm down or you will lose your consci–.”

Another unremitting shove. This time, the breath struck-trapped right at the base of Oliver’s throat that he couldn’t even make a sound.

Elio growled, his face wrinkling deep. His canines began protruding visibly. So Oliver had to act quickly. With a whoosh, Oliver was standing behind Elio with his grip on the base of Elio’s skull, putting him in a hold. He never enjoyed doing this. Of all the time he had known him, Oliver only had to do it once — even that was for the show, to demonstrate Oliver held the superiority over Elio.

.

Elio thrashes, throwing his arms to reach for Oliver. It’s astonishing how strong he is, despite his grim physical state.

“Please–,” Oliver begs, in heart wrenching ache, wringing his taut arm around Elio's mind-torso tighter, “–please–,” his voice shaking despite his efforts to stay calm and centered, Oliver leans his cheek on the side of Elio’s temple. As a last straw, the immortal whispers the Latin phrase into Elio’s ear.

Elio’s jaw drops with a gasp, as an icy sharp mouthful of breath fills his lungs. A sudden remembrance dawns an immediate cease fire in Elio. His pupils blown, Elio’s body abruptly laxes in Oliver’s hold. Oliver repeats the phrase like a prayer and Elio’s body shudders on their own.

Oliver repositions his cheek on Elio’s side, nuzzling closer, and adds a breathless, “Cor Cordium.”

A despairing huff gusts out of Elio’s fallen open jaw, as his eyes begin to swarm with hot tears. Just as suddenly, Elio goes limp in Oliver’s embrace. The vampire’s nostril flares in deep sorrow and pain, tear streaking down his cheeks.

.

***

It was only less than a week after their visit to the monastery. Duty calls. Oliver grunted straightening his upper body. The ampule Michel gave him for his daily dose did help, but only just. The crown prince was used to his body being beaten up through countless battles he had to take part. But this one was different. Of all these years, he had never fallen off from a full-on charging horse, let alone surrounded without any armor or a weapon. He needed to heal up more. He needed _time_ : a lot of it. Unfortunately, it was a luxury he could not afford.

Elio was silent, keeping his gaze down. Oliver sighed through his nose, knowing there was nothing more he could say. Because Elio begged. He _begged_ to accompany him. The young slave reasoned respectfully (still timid and restrained) that since he had his advent transformation he strongly believed that he’d be useful. But Oliver was firm; shook his head, his lips pressed together forming a thin stern line. Elio subdued his disagreement, knitting his eyebrows. Yes, the werewolf understood why Oliver didn’t want him to be in the field with him. Not because he didn’t trust his ability, not because the King (his own father) almost punished him for losing a mare blaming everything on the young servant. But because the desire to keep Elio safe overpowered Oliver’s every logic and rationality.

“Then,” Elio said after a long silence, lifting his chin a bit, _finally_ holding Oliver’s gaze, “at least give me this.”

Oliver’s lip parted in surprise. His beautiful hazels were steady, unflinching.

His condition of staying behind, the werewolf’s unanticipated and daring intercession, was Oliver letting him dress. _At least give me this_ , Elio said firmly, puffing his cheeks a little (a sign he was holding back his anger) with a frown on his face.

.

Elio prepared Oliver’s bath. Up and down the flights of stair case, he carried the buckets and buckets of water; a task that was usually done by three servants. Oliver dumped out his chest and wanted to suggest he could order the scullery maids to bring up the cauldron and heat the water up in his chamber. But he held his tongue. A light sheen of Elio’s forehead soon became sweat beads.

In all Oliver’s life, he never had allowed anyone bathe him. Not since he started his training at the age of seven. He heard Elio’s breaths becoming coarse and amped up a little as he quietly walked in and out of his chamber, without a drop spilling over on the floor. Yet, not a change in his demeanor, his speed and pace held steady. Elio didn’t even let out a heavy exhale.

Once the tub was full, Elio just looked up at him. Still no words. The royal heir let out another subdued sigh. He smothered a grunt (and a couple more) as he got up from his desk and carried his aching on-the-mend body over. When he reached his hand over towards the hem, with a deep grimace, trying to take off his shirt,

“No,” Elio interjected low, placing his hand gently over Oliver’s hand (which was struggling noticeably because of the pain radiating from his ribs).

The young servant took soundless steps around Oliver in a tight half circle and stood in front of him. Oliver’s eyes lightly quivered, searching over Elio’s face. Elio’s hands were trembling. They both saw it. There was no mistake about it. Yet, Oliver did not comment on it. Because he too was nervous, though his face expression stayed impenetrable.

Elio balled up his hands into tight fists at his sides, before reaching his edge-curled fingertips on Oliver’s waist, slowly bunching up the garment. How gentle he was. The royal blood breaths picked a beat faster than usual. The werewolf undressed him slow, with care. Even lightly folding them up, once each pieces of his garment was off his body, even though they were heading down to be laundered. As if he had never seen another soul in his life, as if he was studying them, registering them into his tactile memory, mapping them meticulously in the visual cortex of his memory, Elio’s feverishly shaking fingers touched every mark, every scar on Oliver’s skin. The level of admiration pouring out of the way he touched and the way he regarded Oliver could not be described with words. A seism of yearning vibrated from Oliver’s core. The prince felt he was about to burst at his seams. The hunger for Elio’s lips grew too fast, becoming too large for him to hold down. Oliver wanted him naked. He wanted to hold him, with nothing in between, skin to skin.

“…Elio–,” was all Oliver could manage, leaning down to perch his forehead on the far edge of Elio’s hairline on his forehead.

The young slave led him into the tub slowly. Oliver’s throat waved hard. Thankfully, the temperature of water was perfect. A slow bloom of warmth came as a relief from his lower extremities. Once the human was safely sat inside the tub, Elio folded himself behind him just outside the rim of the wooden vessel. How curious it was that Oliver’s body relaxed as Elio massaged his scalp. He washed every inch of Oliver, positioning himself around the oval wooden tub accordingly. The surprising pleasure it brought Oliver was apparent: the prince was hard. Yet, Elio didn’t say anything or look at him any different.

A horn blew echoing from the castle courtyard denoting the time. Elio sucked in a breath, softening his regrettable sentiment. There was no need for words. Both men knew from what they were being chased after. Time.

Oliver was able to maneuver his injured body better as his muscles loosen up. And Elio guided him out of the tub carefully without infantilizing him. He offered a towel, as he patiently dried Oliver off with another in his hands, with such care and reverence.

“Mhmph,” Oliver muffled a grunt as he habitually turned to walk towards his wardrobe chest.

Elio’s hand rose and he cupped the prince’s shoulder. Right, Oliver admonished himself in his head. The werewolf wrapped a fresh blanket over the prince’s body before he walked away to fetch the garments. He wanted to see him in blue. It was the color he always associated him with; no specific reason. And Elio knew exactly which shirt he was going to bring out.

It used to be a pure white linen shirt. During last summer, the new laundress wasn’t aware that it was mixed in with the pile of indigo undershirts the knights wear. Once it was washed, the natural dye bled through and it became a pastel blue: like that of a clear blue sky in summer. Elio remembered seeing Oliver in it, a few times. The way it billowed in the wind contouring around Oliver’s taut and firm body... the way he felt his world paused and the way his heart drummed against his rib cage, it marked a distinct permanent etch in his mind.

Michel showed him how to bandage Oliver’s torso so he could function as painlessly as he could (on top of help easing the vibrational hits while riding his trusted stead). So choosing the baby blue summer linen was a thoroughly thought out choice. That Oliver’s skin would remain breathable under the layers of thick cotton liner (for winter) over a leather gambeson (*protective layer).

Elio kneeled in front of Oliver, holding the knee length bail-straw-colored undergarment in two hands. Oliver stepped into the bottom, one leg at a time, and Elio pulled it up his legs slowly, unfolding himself in matching speed as he did. So tender, so caring. When he rose into his height, they were so close; so close enough that Oliver could feel Elio’s breath on his skin. The werewolf ran the flat of his fingertips along the inside seam of the prince’s undergarment to line it up around his hip bones. He then reached for the billowy blue linen shirt and scrunched it up on his arms, offering the bottom hem of the shirt for Oliver. The royal blood bowed his head to slip his upper body through. Elio kept his touch light as he guided Oliver arms into respectable side of the shirt.

The shuddering breath passed through the lightly gaped front teeth of the prince, almost sounding like a hiss. Elio lifted his gaze for a split second, only to continue with his warm palms smoothing over Oliver’s chest. He lingered his touch at the left pectoral. A strong heart spoke louder than the words. A strange sense of assurance and comfort colored his body. And behind the fallen over curls, Elio pulled a small tight smile.

.

The process continued. Meticulous movement of hands secured the bandage around Oliver’s abdomen and hugging the lower ribs under his diaphragm. To the human, it felt as if the time slowed. And he wanted this moment to last. Because no matter how experienced he was in the battle and the matters of the patrol, the possibility of him not coming back still was unimaginably high.

Another grunt left Oliver’s body, when Elio secured a thick leather belt around Oliver’s chainamail-ed body. And he saw Elio’s jaw muscle bulge. His sharpened sword secured around his waist, his long-adored the forearm daggers slotted in their respectable places, the werewolf stepped back, his hands together servilely in front of his lower belly.

Oliver filled his lungs slow to their full capacity, testing out the support of the bandage. And he exhaled inaudibly in the same beat, as if to center himself. Two men stood without words. It could only be described as a companionable silence.

“…Thank you,” Oliver said low, finally.

Elio lifted his gaze. Oliver could tell he had something to say but was holding himself back. That was when Oliver opened his arms, pulling the edge of his lips into a soft smile. Elio’s eyes immediately turned red and swelled with tears. The prince’s throat waved vertically. Soon, the young slave’s nostrils flared, his face turning into a frown, his shoulders quivering a fine line. So, Oliver pressed the balls of his feet and closed the distance, wrapping his arms around Elio. A single strangled sob became muffled on the crook of Oliver’s shoulder. And the only thing the human could do was to run a slow long line of his palm on the back of Elio’s body.

.

For the next few weeks, the same continued. And Elio began to feel at ease each time he bathed and dressed him. His hands shook less and the sense of calm settled when he readied Oliver for his patrols and battles. Each time, Oliver came back with less men, his body covered in fresh wounds and angry bruises, Elio’s heart sank. But he tried his best not to show it. On his fifth return, Elio sat by the candle light — Oliver no longer suffering from the aftershock of that trip back from the monastery (his ribs all healed up and regained his full range of motion) — and watched Oliver showing how he usually tend to his chainmail. Rivet by rivet, Elio leaning snug on Oliver’s side, the warm tenor of prince’s voice filled the room. At the end of 11th hour into the night, as if a test, Oliver pressed his lips over the unruly curls around Elio’s temple. To his relief, the young servant didn’t pull away. The way he blushed and ducked his head landed right on Oliver’s chest.

By the time the last of the biting winter finally gave way to the new life in spring, another one hundred youngs were ready to be sent to Chiara’s castle. Elio knew how Oliver felt about this. Though well-fed the evening before, the rage and apprehension coursed deep within the royal heir’s soul. Standing a half a step behind, his head hanging low, Elio raised his hand and pressed his palm between the prince’s shoulder blades. That was when Oliver felt a strange sense of calm radiating from his upper back, like a blooming flower. A wordless assurance. Of being understood, of being supported of his emotion, he felt his anger dissipating.

.

A couple of days later, it was the day Oliver and his knights were scheduled to deliver the quarterly tribute. Elio woke up with an unsettling feeling in his gut. He paced and paced in the chamber until the prince came back from their early council meeting.

“Sire,” Elio called almost in a balk, the moment the door began ajar.

“Please–,” Oliver smiled first, as seeing Elio became a synonym of joy and glee, “how many times have I asked you?” he added warmly, closing the door behind him, “when we are alone you are to address me as Oli–, Oof!!”

Elio hurtled forward, wrapping his arms around Oliver, burying his face on the mortal’s chest. Oliver could only blink. He had never done this before.

“I don’t like this,” Elio confessed into Oliver’s chest, his voice muffled.

The prince wrapped his arms around the slave and brought him close into his embrace. It was their first time hugging like this. Elio felt good. Oliver enjoyed being held like this by him. Him holding onto him as if he was the life giving force, as if he was everything.

Oliver let out a chuckle like sigh, “you know I have done this many times,” nuzzling his cheek on the top of Elio’s head, “is it the weather?” he teased.

Elio groaned, smothering his disagreement and the protest that came out as a whimper.

“I will be fine–,” the crown prince tried reassuring him warmly, running his palms soothingly.

.

As it turned out, Elio was right. In the distance, the emergency signal shot up and drew a steep arch in the pitch black sky. The second one lit up another arc. Frantically, Elio begged.

“We must go. We need to send help!”

Instead, the King’s head of security threw the back of his hand across Elio’s face, “How dare!” he snarled, “you forget your place, animal!”

Elio persisted and begged on for another battalion to be sent out as an immediate aid. Marzia tried to reason with him but Elio wouldn’t listen. A thick lash cracked the cold night's air. Anchise somehow hopped onto the horse and decided to throw the lashing on him. Three blades slashed across the young slave’s back. Yet, he didn’t stop, instead he looked more determined. Another whip tore the biting air in half was when Elio extended his arm up high and caught the end of the flogger. Silver blades wrapped themselves around Elio’s wrist lodging their sharp edges into the flesh, deep. And he pulled with all his might and Anchise fell forward off the horse. With one swift motion, Elio hopped onto the horse.

“Hyaht!” and Elio rode the horse and leaped over the speared log barricade.

.

His mind was racing, his breaths rough, Elio cut through the woodlands in full speed. His werewolf eyes zoomed in and he could see the tenebrous boscage and forestland as if it was daylight. The new found appreciation of his ability coursing through his veins like exhilaration, Elio charged on, praying that he wouldn’t arrive too late. It took less than a few moments for him to notice another one of his abilities. The extremes of his physiological reaction faded out and he heard the keychain clanging on the left side of the saddle. That was when he detected the deep cuts he suffered on his wrist were already healed up. His curls blowing in the wind, Elio felt bolstered.

When he reached close to the silver mine, he hopped off the horse without slowing down, his grip unhooking the loop of metal keys with ease. The horse neighed as she almost lost her balance from Elio’s unexpected dismount, drawing a sharp turn-away running herself back towards the castle. The werewolf found the key for his neck shackle quickly and released his neck from it, tossing both away to his left. And he threw his upper body forward, transforming into his werewolf form. He roared on top of his lungs, breaking into a full speed.

And just as he expected, Oliver and his men were surrounded and out-numbered by lycans. Elio snarled, cutting through the mess of bloody battle. It was an ambush. The carriage was sunken into the forest floor that was dug up deliberately, premeditation written all over. The werewolf lunged and jumped over, overpowering the mindless range-blinded lycans. By size, he would never be a match for one on one combat. Yet, his wit and swiftness worked in insurmountable accuracy and precision: ruthless by design, lethal in construct. It took him taking down seven lycans to get to Oliver.

The prince’s face lit up, his eyes wide, “Elio! How??”

The werewolf snorted sternly as if to say, ‘no time for that now.’

Oliver huffed out loud, his face covered in the mixture of mud and blood, understanding exactly what he meant. And the royal heir gritted his teeth. Two exchanged a light nod in shared comradery and shear will to triumph over their grim reality. If no tomorrow were come, at least we had each other. At least, I get to die beside you, the human thought. Elio puffed out a short piercing exhale in a way he was laughing at the irony. Digging his heels in, Oliver exhaled sharply with determination and tightened his grip around his sword.

.

In the end, three out of ten knights made it back to the castle grounds, all heavily injured. They did not know how many survived. Because of how the ambush happened, Oliver couldn’t tell whether they died or were captured to be turned. Or worse, to become snack bags for blooding sucking death dealers in Chiara’s coven. There was no time to retrieve the chest of silver tribute, either. It was all around a complete utter loss. Chiara would definitely blame the King for this. And the wrath of death dealers would soon descend upon the kingdom.

Elio, still in werewolf form, paced next to Oliver so he would walk back with his head held high, despite the injuries he sustained and the physical exhaustion.

.

***

**Oliver’s Cabin**

Cutting through the blizzard, that happened to time itself to get treacherously heavy, from the front of his property to inside his cabin was a task. Hoisting Elio’s trembling body close with his limp arm slung over his shoulder, Oliver felt he trudged a mile in a snow storm. He wiped the tear streak off his face. He just got him back. He doesn’t know how this is possible but he cannot lose his shit, not now, not ever — no matter how hard it is for him.

When Oliver is just about to have Elio sit down on the edge of bed, he hears two distinct knocks on the door. The vampire tenses up. He hurries himself to have Elio lean against the hastily pulled together pillows and bunched up blanket. If it is Micole, they are totally fucked. Oliver curses under his breath. But he has to do something.

That’s when eyes-pinned-out Elio reaches for him, and pleas with barely there whisper, “… please don’t leave–.”

Oliver’s heart wrenches. He leans down and cups Elio’s face. Even for a werewolf, he is burning too high. Oliver smooths his curls softly trying his best to appear everything is okay. _Everything has to be okay._

Knock–, Knock–!

Oliver’s head turns and his throat works. He faces Elio in a swift motion and gently lifts his chin so their gaze are in full contact. And he places his index over his closed lips. With a squeeze of his palm over Elio’s shoulder, Oliver leaves the room, closing the door behind him.

Shotgun won’t work, Oliver reflects on his experience with Micole all those years ago. So he reaches for the knife from the kitchen. He walks towards the edge of the window and leans against the wall there on his side. Damn it, Oliver execrates tartly under his breath. His line of sight is blurred by the amount of snow. So he quietly sidesteps to his front door and leans his back against the wall, right next to the door knob. He heaves his chest to its full capacity and extends his hand to take hold of the handle. In a quick pull, he pivots himself 180 and swings his dagger at the throat level. His forearm hits something held vertically. And the whiff of something ancient yet familiar hits his nose. The hooded figure smiles warmly, the expression so serene and warm. Oliver’s entire being halts to a dead stop. And he feels his knees buckling under his weight, “…how?” he breathes the word like a sigh of relief.

.

“May I?” Vimini asks elegantly, her soft hands reaching for the hood of her cloak.

Oliver stands with his eyes wide, his chest heaving two beats fast.

“No matter how long the time passes, you must invite us in,” the voice echoes, another hooded figure emerging from behind and he recognizes the owner of the other voice instantly.

“Michel?”

“Your highness,” the old man with his silver hair, just as Oliver remembers, takes a step closer bowing his head to him.

Oliver’s eyes dart, managing to step over with a stuttering, “please,” and extends his arm in place of his verbal invitation.

The only thing changed is their 21st century clothing. The mannerism and the way they move about Oliver’s cabin are exactly as they were.

“Where is he?” Vimini inquires softly, looking up at Oliver.

Oliver gives her a stunned look but he lifts his edge-curled hand towards the back bedroom. Michel takes the long traveling cloak from her as she gracefully shrugs it off from her small body.

When three arrive, Elio’s limp body is slumped over to the side like a wilted flower. Vimini tsks under her breath.

“Just as I feared,” she adds and lowers herself down next to him, perching her thigh on the edge of the bed.

Her pale hands reach for Elio’s lower jaw and she assesses him, lifting his fluttering eyelids, running the pads of her fingertips on his neck. On the corner table, Michel lays his medicine bag.

“Atya (*father in Hungarian, also meaning, the benevolent all father),” she calls for the silver haired man.

Oliver’s vampire eyes focus on the little vile Michel is bringing over.

“Rest your heart, these are sleeping draft you used to drink,” the old man explains warmly, “with a little bit of honey.”

Vimini pulls out a pin from her hair and pricks the inside of her thumb. A bead of her red blood blooms instantly. And she leans close to Elio’s ear. Cheek-to-cheek, she whispers something Oliver cannot understand and gently dabs her pricked thumb over his lower lip. Elio lets out a weak whimper.

“It’s gonna be alright,” she assures quietly, placing the small lip of the tiny flask, “that’s it. there–.”

Michel walks over to the other side and helps getting Elio lie on his back properly. Vimini runs her palm over Elio’s sweating forehead and says the ancient tongue. As if it’s like a magic, Elio’s face relaxes. That’s when Vimini finally sighs in relief under her breath.

.

“What’s happening to him?” Oliver asks cautiously, when he hears a cared gesture of Michel closing the door of the bedroom as quietly as he can.

Vimini fills her lungs, her composure still as lissome and willowy as ever.

“Though his body has been in this timeline for a while,” she brings her left hand up, and places her palm under the bottom of her sternum deftly, “his mind is just beginning to catch up.”

Oliver knits his eyebrows trying to understand.

Vimini offers him a small sympathetic smile, “come, let us sit.”

Michel moves around the cabin as if he has been living here all along and brings them warm pot of tea. (in a traveling set he always carried)

“The day you were captured by Micole and her miscreants, Marzia’s husband found Elio at the foot of the hill, barely hanging on.”

Oliver takes in a sharp breath. Apparently, with the help of Michel, Elio was brought back to life.

She pulls her chin towards her chest a smidge, as if she knows exactly what Oliver is thinking. Because the vampire was sure he felt Elio breathed his last breath before he went into a blind rampage, leaving his lifeless body on the side of the riverbed. Vimini hums low. Oliver’s gaze moves toward Michel and he shakes his head.

“Only three nights later, Micole’s clan descended upon our village. The King and the remaining knights, not knowing whether you survived or not, left us behind after they heard you were taken. Lycans were slaughtered, eligible youngs were snatched, and the rest became the living blood supply in lamb skin for the death dealers. I too,” Michel pauses, at his still vivid memory, “was drained of my blood. When my body couldn’t replenish in the pace they desired, I was given the venom and left to die.”

The blond seethes at his words, gritting his teeth behind his closed lips. A flash of how he went through the similar surfaces in Oliver’s head. Something coils in his gut. Because he is thoroughly familiar with the atrocity of Micole (and her minions) had unleashed.

“I don’t know how she found me but her Excellency saved me,” Michel beams at her with veneration, dipping his head a little to show his respect, “so, no, I am still a human.”

Oliver pulls his upper back slightly, looking almost confused. At that, Vimini chuckles softly under her breath.

“The world is no longer the era we had once lived. Me in this form cannot travel without the scrutiny of meddling humans. Having Atya, I still can serve my purpose unconstrained,” Vimini offers, “for that, I am the one who is ever grateful for his guardianship and devotion.” And before he asks any further, she volunteers as if she is reading off a title of recipe, so casual, so unaffected, “of all the years I have spent in this vessel, I have only sired one.”

.

**In a meanwhile, Elio’s Mindspace**

The King finally recognized the loyalty of Elio and his monumental contribution to his own son’s safety, he declared an exception. By appointing the young werewolf as Oliver’s official body guard, he became (a type of) protected status. And the King vowed to shelter him from the death dealers and Chiara’s rule. From that day on, Elio accompanied Oliver and his men to their each and every patrol and battle with lycans.

One late morning, Elio walked to the square where knights and soldiers were gathering for their next patrol with something a little different. Oliver closed the distance and did not fail to notice it. Reaching for his neck shackle as the royal human had done several times with a practice ease, Oliver ran his fingertips over the braid right behind Elio’s ear. Elio blushed shyly, ducking his head a little.

“Marzia,” was all he said.

Oliver simply hummed and Elio was liberated from the heavy shackle.

In the village of Oliver’s kingdom, there was this long held tradition. After the youngs came of their age and once they found their other half, a betrothed pair could wear a token of their affection in the form of tiny ornaments (a feather, a dried flower petal, a string of thin leather, beads, and so on) in a thin strand of braided hair.

After handing over the unlocked shackle to one of his weaponry keepers, Oliver reached for the braid of Elio hair once more and took hold of it between his fingers. Though Oliver never actually gave these petite adornments to Elio, he understood what each of them meant. He wordlessly cupped the side of Elio’s head and gazed into his bright hazel eyes.

“Ready?” he asked softly.

With a firm dip of his head, smiling, not forgetting to wait for Oliver to step aside, Elio let out a roar and transformed into a werewolf, right at the middle of the castle courtyard. The villagers cheered, wishing them a safe and victorious return.

.

That night when they returned, — bruised, sprained, and exhausted — they came back with everyone. Elio in werewolf form looking so magnificent covered in enemy’s blood escorted the soldiers and knights back safely behind the castle gate. The King touted their successful return, ordered a small feast be held in their honor. But Oliver took only a bit of time to raise a goblet to show his appreciation and retired early.

When he arrived at his chamber, Elio stood up from the desk with a little start. All washed, in clean clothes, his cheeks flushed in blush pink: it was a sight. Oliver could tell Elio was reading the book they started a while ago. Cosmic Fragments. Elio quickly put a dried twig between the pages and came over to assist.

There was no need for Elio to bathe him. But Oliver didn’t ask him to stop and Elio didn’t inquire whether he should. Now, it became their ritual.

Elio dabbed the towel he kept by the fire (so it was warm to the touch) over Oliver’s naked body, drying him off. Once he was satisfied, Elio lifted a neatly folded pile of clothes.

Oliver huffed with a grin. Elio cocked his head in genuine bewilderment. The prince pivoted on the heel of his feet and walked across his chamber, buck naked. Elio blinked several times, wondering what he was up to. When the mortal reached for the far bottom drawer of his chest, he paused.

“…Oliver?” Elio called rather timidly.

The royal heir looked over his shoulder and gestured his softly unfurled hand. Elio came to him. He was holding something in his palm. The way he held it without words exuded the unmistakable sentiment that the object was so dear to him. Oliver breathed meaningfully through his nose before he finally said,

“This belonged to my mother. Or what’s left of them. Every gold and silver needed to be gathered and melted down for the tribute,” Oliver illuminated, slowly showing what was on his hold, “I was allowed to keep these.”

Within his large callused palm lied a pile of small jade beads and two tiny metal discs that were made of bronze. It looked like a family heirloom that was sent from a faraway land of Eastern dynasty. Chinese jade and Indian bronze discs that appeared to be a part of an earring.

“Here,” Oliver led them to sit on the edge of the bed.

Without further words, the human reached for Elio’s braid and began undoing it. Elio took in a surprised breath but he didn’t object. Only the hypnotic movement of the flames and the little occasional pop and delightful crackles of well-dried wood in the fireplace filled the room. Oliver redid Elio's braid with his mother’s beads and finished it with a tiny bronze disc hang at the end. The edges of prince’s lips pulled to form a big smile. Then, he extended his open palm of small adornment he took off from Elio in front of the young slave. Elio gazed at Oliver’ palm and blinked. He turned his head and looked up at him, then a blink followed. Only thing the prince did was to lift his open hand up a little, in ‘here, go on.’ So, the werewolf adjusted his position at the edge of the bed and reached his hands up. He could see his hands were trembling again but he was feeling happy. Taking hold of a small amount of hair, the young servant began braiding Oliver hair in a thin strand. When he was about done, Oliver offered the other disc. Elio blinked at it with his lips parting lightly in surprise. The human did not rush him and waited patiently with his hand raised, until the young werewolf took it into his hand and hung it at the last loop of the braid. Oliver simply hummed and heaved his chest slow in calm satisfaction. Elio’s throat waved and pushed his shoulders forward to get himself up.

“Don’t,” Oliver said breathlessly, reaching his hand over on Elio’s lap, and stopped him from getting up.

Elio was hearing his heartbeat in his ears. Yes, he held his admiration and affection for Oliver in his heart for so long he knew what he was feeling for him. But the fact that Oliver was about to reflect that of his, he couldn’t believe his reality.

Oliver ran his fingertips dotingly around the contour of Elio’s face. His gaze so adoring, warm and sweet like honey. Two men were breathing at the same beat. Yet, Elio cursed at the fact how Oliver could look so composed. That was when the words came; in his most gorgeous voice, accompanied with the most soothing treble that sent a seismic quake in Elio's entire being,

“May I kiss you?”

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, \Thank You/ for reading your time and interest.  
> .  
> I will hold your heart, your hopes and dreams, and your soul, if you'd let me. Please do continue your self-care and self-love; stay well and healthy: mind, body, and soul.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In one of their battles to keep the silver mine secure, Oliver and Elio were surrounded. Yet, they stood their ground and fought off every single lycans. Only after a brief moment of relief, surviving men were delimited by Micole’s death dealer goons. With sustained injury, Elio dies in Oliver’s arms. Instead of letting Oliver go, Micole devised a cunning plan to overthrow Chiara. This chapter holds a beginning of the story on how Oliver became the vampire, just as Vimini warned, after he was captured.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ Be fore-informed ] Oliver’s past events coalesce in this chapter to get the story moving. Non-linear! May read as choppy!   
>  –This still _Is_ an M/M AU but Micole-Oliver line needed to happen to explain how Oliver became the kind of immortal he is. No hard feelings about Micole but... in this AU, she had to be _that_ to make the progression more fitting to the story arc. *sorry but not really sorry*   
>  –as per usual, my rating censure has always been off so… though I’m leaving this as T but… do let me know if it needs the blanket M. I humbly thank you in advance. *head bow*    
>  –There is a mirror element with Greek-AU (of this /træn’sendɘns/ series) in this chapter. I am in the process of retouching it before I re-upload that drabble. Please forgive me.   
> 

How ironic it was. Being born of flesh-n-blood ceased its meaning and purpose, once the one you love, more than your own life, was no more.

The musty stench of the place didn’t register any longer. Oliver’s wrists were bound, hoisted up at the end of a long heavy chain, almost to a point where his shoulders were about to pop off from their sockets. His skin there was chaffed off to a degree that mangled raw tissues and ugly bruises were visible over his white bones, puss oozing out of them. A chaotic flash of his recent memory jumbled over in his head, as if it belonged to someone else so foreign to him, as if they were no longer his. The royal blood fought to his tooth-n-nail, despite his gut telling his pained brain to sink his teeth into that warm tasty blood, as if that was the rightful way. The smell of copper in that red liquid was so enticing that almost robbed him of his humanity. He had heard stories, of how humans would turn into vampires. Since it rarely happened under Chiara's governance, the real truth remained as a speculation, which turned a long lost tale of someone, then soon became a myth. Who knew it took that much to resist the new found yet bone-chillingly unwanted urge for blood that overtook him mercilessly. At the foot of his dismal state, there was a puddle of murky black water. And in there, water logged carcasses of something once lived bobbed slowly. It must have been an old well that was turned into a torture chamber. At the far corner, there was a faint hint life of someone with just as grim predicament. What supposed to be a sacrifice Oliver was to feed on, yet behemantly repelled and withstood against to the last of his breath.

Micole had drained Oliver of his blood almost to the brink of death, once he was captured. He could not remember how long he had been in this shit hole. His chest bellowing too fast too shallow barely hanging on, his face gaunt and ashen devoid of life, he hung his head low as if his neck wasn’t there. Funny how the mind worked. The delirium of him knocking on the death's door brought him the very thing he held dear.

.

“May I kiss you?” he had once asked, feeling his throat bob in anticipation and a strange mixture of tightness and thirst he didn’t know he could feel.

Elio’s mouth parted with a tiny gasp, with a subtle ‘uh’ of surprise taking hold of his magnificent heart shaped lips, muted with everything in sudden pause. Oliver traced a delicate line along Elio’s lower jaw with his finger, touching and caressing yet not at all at the same time, all the way to the tip of Elio’s sculpted chin.

The pregnant moment of pause hung between them, the delicious tension keep building up. Yet, neither moved. Only the flicker of flames in the fire place kept the beat. Oliver’s eyes almost half-lidded, adoring and patiently waiting. Then it happened.

With a sharp inaudible breath, Elio surged forward pressing his lips over Oliver’s. The prince’s head tilted back in welcome, his lips pulling into a soft smile. His chest gave out an involuntary hum of satisfied moan, threading his fingers into those wayward chocolate curls. Oliver tested the boundary by licking Elio’s lower lip, with just the tip of his tongue. He was rewarded with a shuddering breath that swiftly turned into a tiny whimper. He felt Elio’s body quivering, ever so softly. So, he breathed a relief of sigh, snaking his arms around Elio’s body, their lips gliding over, as he widened his mouth slow where Elio’s mirrored pliantly breathing him in, rapturously.

The human never imagined Elio would taste this good on his tongue. Elio moaned against him, his head feeling dizzy. Slow smooching sound echoed on and on, never hurried yet so passionate, never letting go, their heads tilting in a rhythm, their noses pressed on each other's cheek. Oliver cradled the back of Elio’s head, his fingertips drawing tiny circles on the scalp there. His other arm folded inward at the elbow and his fingers brushed those beautiful ringlets around Elio’s temple. Elio protested out a whine into Oliver’s mouth, chasing after Oliver’s lips, assuming he was pulling away from him. Oliver couldn’t help but to chuckle softly into Elio’s lips.

“I want you out of these clothes,” the royal heir said low, only a little more than a whisper.

Elio pulled his chin, their kiss swollen lips lapping over each other’s loose not wanting to let go with a languid juicy sound. Forehead to forehead, both men’s chests cycled in same quickened beats, trying to catch a breath.

“It’s not fair,” Oliver added with a little pout, his large palm cuddling the side of Elio’s head, “you are so close. So close but,” and he nuzzled his cheek forward and pressed his lips on the corner of Elio’s mouth. And Elio leaned into it with the hot breath through his nose, shutting his eyes tighter.

Elio pulled his hands close, his elbows bending outward, and his fingers bunched up the sides of his shirt along his flank. Emboldened, Oliver tilted his head, his lips reuniting with Elio’s, the human’s hands thrummed the contour of Elio’s ribs. His tactile senses were greeted with tight lean muscles. Being a werewolf, Elio’s skin was toasty. He felt so good under his fingers. _Exquisite_ , Oliver raptured in his head.

Elio gladly relinquished his control of trying to free himself from his shirt and let Oliver do the rest. Lifting his arms up so the prince could peel him off from the garment. The fabric around the neck of his shirt clung to Elio’s hair before it finally released its hold from him entirely. It only made him look more disheveled, with his blush-elated cheeks and glistening salmon-pink plump lips. His form backlit by the scarlet, orange, and amber hue emanating from the hearth, Elio was absolutely stunning.

Oliver circled his arms around him, embracing Elio’s bare body close to his chest. The werewolf buried his face into the crook of the mortal’s shoulder.

“…I’m nervous,” Elio confessed into his skin, his hands running a soft line over Oliver’s back.

Oliver pulled him in close, feeling his stead-fast heart beat resounding strongly against his own. He couldn’t help but to take in a large lungful of breath. And he pressed his cheek close, placing his lips right next to Elio’s ear;

“Call me by your name, and I’ll call you be mine.”

.

The thick wrought iron gate screeched open. And Oliver heard someone covering their mouths with a noise of revulsion. Must be Micole’s knaves, his foggy head echoed a thought.

His sight blurred, the prince could not make out exactly what was going on. His consciousness was being pulled back to his memory. Of Elio. How warm he felt in his arms. The way his eyes gleamed with affection and admiration. There was a bit of kerfuffle of dragging the body out, as Oliver’s mind flickered. Someone cursed while dragging the corps out from the water. The human’s mind was fracturing.

.

A fine tremble line rippled from Elio’s toasty skin to Oliver unfiltered. And Oliver waited, until the moisture started to gather as a thin-layer between their unclothed skin. But no words came. So, the prince pulled his head back to meet Elio’s eyes.

How incredible it was to behold such a sight. Open and unguarded, Elio didn’t look away. He was gazing into him, his eyes kind and tender, only with the steady movement of his long lashes batting the air. And he raised his edge-curled hand gradually.

The tips of four fingers landed on the thatch of golden hair on Oliver’s chest was when he heard,

“…Elio.”

Each syllable pronounced clearly with ease yet soft, like a hint of hesitation. As if he was testing how it sounded on his tongue, though it was his own name that he knew all his life.

Oliver’s breath hitched. Because it was only a few weeks ago, Elio finally began calling him ‘Oliver,’ not by his title. The prince’s entire being shuddered as he exhaled long and slow. And Elio spread his fingers wide over Oliver’s chest into the fine threads spun in bright blond, so responsively, as if he couldn’t believe his reality.

Oliver’s nostrils flared as his chest swelled with intangible irreconcilable emotion.

“Oliver–.”

“Elio.”

Oliver breathed his astonishment through his parted lips and called him in awe, by _his_ name again, “Oliver.”

.

A heart wrenching sob stuck deep in his chest, Oliver’s lips murmured.

“Tsk, tsk, tsk,” there was no mistake in his ears, tart and saccharine, barren of any human emotions; the voice belonged to Micole.

Oliver felt his head being propped up with claw-like hands. Unlike Elio’s, her bony fingers lacked the warmth. Micole lifted his eyelids.

“How extraordinary,” Micole sounded as though she was pleased with herself, “any normal human would have died or succumbed to the blood thirst less than three days in your condition,” in a self-congratulatory tone, “yet again, I’ve made an excellent choice, haven’t I?”

Oliver tried to growl or gnash his teeth to show his true feeling at her but nothing came out. A faint tremble of his jaw and a meager flick of his parched tongue were the only movement his body could manage.

In a nonchalant sing-songy voice, Michole sighed, so very unconcerned, “you won’t die and you won’t feed on another human,” throwing her hands up at around her shoulders, “hmm~, what is one to do~? mhuh~?” thoroughly musing only to her own scheme.

Oliver’s eyes rolled back, showing whites of his eyes: sunken deep in his socket, red with tiny blood vessels strangled desperately, helplessly.

.

“Elio,” Elio said it, this time, with a genuine smile. Oliver felt exactly what he was feeling.

So the royal blood scooped Elio’s body up (which made him giggle into his skin) and plopped their bodies on the bed. And Oliver began pressing his hot lips over Elio’s skin, everywhere. In his mind, his kiss swollen lips were that of ochre bright iron out of the scorching kamin searing his claim on Elio’s skin. The young slave moaned and writhed slow under him, threading his fingers deep into Oliver’s hair, encouraging him, telling him he wants more of it. When the trail of his wet sweltering lips made their way near the waist line of Elio’s body, Oliver felt Elio sucking in his belly. The prince lifted his gaze and found Elio looking down at him, his eyes glazed over, disheveled so beautifully, and wanting. Oliver let out a brief satisfied hum, keeping a smile to himself. Reassured and feeling invigorated, he heaved his chest before placing his mouth over the fabric where Elio was bulging.

A delightful sound of stifled cry echoed from above, Elio tilting his head over. Oliver carried on moving his mouth over the thick shaft as he lifted his eyes. And a magnificent line of upside down V over the young werewolf’s pale skin was positively remarkable for Oliver to witness.

Elio was seeing stars; he never knew being touched this intimately by someone he secretly loved would feel this good. His throat was making sounds he never knew he could make. He tried biting down or smothering them but there was no use. The blazing white spark shoot up straight along his spine and his mind went blank while his heart thumped against his chest relentlessly. And he kept seeing his head being filled with bursts of lively colors: fireworks. He only read about them in written words. But Elio was sure that was how it would look like.

Oliver’s mouth carried on its exploration, now the linen damp with the mixture of his precum and his saliva. Yet he wanted more. He wanted Oliver’s steamy nimble mouth on his bare skin. So, without thinking, he lifted his head a little and reached his hands down around the waist of his pants.

“So eager,” Oliver teased with a lopsided grin, placing his large hands over Elio’s clumsy fingers.

Elio couldn’t get himself out of it fast enough. Impatience running high, he fished out his legs, kicking the fabric off him. Huff like chuckles filled between them, Oliver’s eyes adoring him so.

Seeing it out in the open was way better than what Oliver pictured just a moment ago. A sudden sense of pride landed heavy on his chest, looking down at Elio’s naked state, was very close to the time when he caught the biggest game of his life. A unique prize that was his and his alone. Oliver overcame with unparalleled hunger. It was more than a gluttony, his mouth watered and ached to touch and hold him in his mouth. And Elio extended his arm out, fingers splayed, inviting him desperately, as if he was asking Oliver to hurry back. Oliver gritted his teeth with a low growl, profound arousal and ardent adulation coursing through his body like molten gold. The bridge of his nose crinkled a little before he folded his body forward between Elio’s legs, obliging to his mate’s wordless call, without wasting any more moment.

Running the flat of his tongue over the long thick shaft, his nose was mesmerized by the scent that only belonged to Elio. Under him, Elio’s inner thighs quivered in a tiny ripple after ripple, his ankles and heels brushing against the bedding creating a static rustling sound. Oliver was enraptured on how Elio was being undone by him, how powerful it felt to be the one to do this, knowing no other soul in this world had done but him. At the same time, he too was learning about Elio, what made him whimper and moan, how he liked to be touched, turning something so extremely unfamiliar into something so intimately close. The very definition of alchemy of their love, their unlikely union.

“Nhnn–,” Elio breathed out, tugging a grip in Oliver’s hair, as if to say he likes this and that he wants Oliver to continue.

The prince slurped up the length, his mouth glistening with his own spit and Elio’s copious precum. With a tiny pop, he hovered his body over beautifully sprawled out body of Elio. Taking a sweet yet a tad extended time crawling over him.

Elio’s tongue darted out wetting his parched lips before he said a breathless, “you’lll kill me if you stop.”

Oliver’s eyes turned into satisfied and victorious half-moons. Before Elio could say anything, the human lifted himself off the bed with a light peck on Elio’s parted mouth. His head limply fanning over to the side, his sweaty cheek landing on the soft silky fabric, the werewolf whined out a soft disappointment at the stunning back of his prince who was walking towards his wooden chest. It was a sight—broad, firm, adorned with battle scars, that was now glistening with thin sheen of sweat.

Standing in front of his antique dresser, Oliver didn’t imagine the perfumed oil that a Mediterranean ambassador brought long before his mother’s passing would have this use. Because he couldn’t imagine using other choice of oil. He briefly grimaced a little as the thought of lard and rendered duck fat ran across his head. An elongated tear-shaped glass vase that fitted in his palm contained the musk of some exotic animal with the mixture of herbs he never smelled in his land before.

“…Elio–,” his beautiful werewolf called him, his voice tinted with impatience of their separation.

Oliver sucked in a lungful, giving the semi-translucent blue flask a light squeeze before turning back to the bed, his own erection bobbing a series of light horizontal swings in mid-air as he traced his steps back. The prince perched himself over Elio, who elbowed his body back up placing himself in the middle of the bed, as they kissed and kissed. Now, Elio moaned into his mouth without holding any back. He was happy, and so was Oliver.

As Oliver scooted his knees up under the taut muscles of and between Elio’s wide open legs, his thumb pulled the top of the vile. Without letting Elio’s lips go, he poured some over his open palm, as he bucked his hips to align their aching erections together.

The way the scent notes and the thickness changed as it pooled around the middle of his palm was hard to describe in words. Oliver brought their erections into his grip, massaging the perfumed oil in over their skin in slow upward spiral motion of his wrist. Elio captured his lower lip between his teeth, muffling his moan.

“Tell me,” Oliver said low, unassailable yet so affectionate, “tell me whom this body belongs to.”

Undulating his hips intuitively in a synchronistic rhythm, Elio gasped the answer, breathing heavy, “you.”

“Tell me who can do this to you.”

“Hmnh, you,” Elio’s eyes were rolling over with the arousal he never felt, his mouth dry, gasping for air, “Only you.”

His lips pulled into a triumphant smile. And Elio surged up, clawing his hands over Oliver’s shoulders, seeking more contact, and straddled him. So the mortal ran a thick pane of possessive touch with his hand along Elio’s spine. The salt-moisture beaded skin there allowed his movement to travel over with ease, delivering the sentiment, the need, and the want as a whole without any of them lost in the way: no filter, raw and unadorned, nothing held back. Oliver’s mouth traced an unyielding mark after mark of kisses: from Elio closed lidded eyes, down along his sharp cheek bone, briefly capturing his enviable little earlobe between his teeth, then along the long lean tendon of his neck, and over a nice half-circle hollow at the bottom center of his neck. Elio let out a steamy ‘ha–‘ as he tilted his head back all the way, his unruly curls now moistened at the roots falling back in striking cascade.

The werewolf crossed his ankles, digging his heels right behind Oliver’s bare ample mounds, as his toes curled in tight. The upper arm muscle tightened as if on cue, Oliver began pumping his hand faster. Elio’s body pulsed in spluttering waves in return. How magnificent.

“Oliver–,” Oliver called him by his name, scraping his teeth over the perch of Elio’s shoulder, keeping the speed of the stroke of his grip.

Elio’s body tensed, his head rolling an arc with a sway, his name caught half-pronounced in his tongue, “El hnn–.”

His entire being was grappled with depthless desire and ferociousness with one thing in his mind. Two bodies in their singular immeasurable craving for one another, two hearts thrashing in unrelenting beats, two souls _finally_ finally merged into one.

Elio barely made out a mumble between his bated heavy breaths, “Elio–, I–, Uhnn.”

“Don’t hold back, I have you,” Oliver said like a prayer, it was his soul speaking to him, “I’m never letting go.”

Elio pulled his shoulders in tight before his upper body lurched, his hands holding onto Oliver’s body with dear life. Then, Oliver’s head turned blank and his grip was celebrated with the mixture of their hot spill. He felt his body stutter, feeling Elio leaning forward, his body laxing, giving into the ecstasy. Oliver nuzzled his head, gathering his composure, and pressed an open mouth kiss on Elio’s skin as he ran softer line over their erection.

“Mhmph,” Elio sighed as he spilled a bit more, sluggishly turning his cheek, and searched for Oliver’s lips.

“Beautiful–,” said the prince, welcoming Elio’s wet tongue over his.

The werewolf moaned into his mouth as they shared lazy kiss after kiss.

.

Oliver groaned softly. As his body felt a light waft of cool breeze, his mind stirred back into consciousness. His body ached. Having a werewolf as a lover who seemed to have endless reserve of energy came with its price. And the mortal loved every second of it. Yet, something… something was different. Odd, he thought, having always been an early riser, his head still trying to clear away the sleep clouds was rather new. Heavy lids lifted slowly, his eyes gaining its focus in increments. Blurry, he looked at his hand and forearm. His parched lips parted with a strange sense of doubt. He felt his eyebrows pulling close. When the blurriness finally gave way, Oliver blinked twice: just to make sure. He turned his hand and flipped it over. His chest started to heave faster.

The wounds and scars of his past were gone. The ones that Elio's soft lips adored and kissed each time they were alone. His skin soft without any blemish. Something was not right, the voice in his head echoed. That was when the familiar weight on his other upper arm registered. His heart sank with a lurch as if the back of his body thudded against the stone ground. Oliver turned his head, his eyes wide.

Next to him, to his dread, instead of his beloved Elio, lied Micole. Her bony unnaturally perfectly-manicured hand was over his chest where Elio’s warmer loving firm hand should lie. An irrecognizable sound of horror escaped his lips as he hurtled his body up, away from her cold death-stenched body, not quickly enough.

Micole’s giant eyes opened without a start and she let out what could only be described as regrettable moan. Her lithe slender form lifted off the bed like a ghost before she slithered off the bed. Her long slender fingers carding through her long wavy hair. So nonchalant, so undisturbed.

Oliver stuttered an exhale in utter aversion and disbelief, “What have you done?”

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> –Oh, yes, *sneaky evil grin, shifty eyes, rubbing palms together* I sprinkled a hint in prior chapters but… come on, a slave and a prince (master)? How can I not play on words, hmm? hehehe  
> .  
> As Always, \Thank you/ for reading, your time and interest.  
> From my bright happy heart, I humbly wish that you do kindly continue your self-care and self-love: mind, body, soul. If for anything else, your light and love within and for yourself matter to me: unreservedly and deeply.

**Author's Note:**

> .  
> [[why I am not on any social media](https://youtu.be/PmEDAzqswh8)]  
> .  
>  **A Little Something**  
>  ; for those of very very few who'd like to drop a suggestion or have a question about any of my drabbles (i.e. clarification, background, etc.), please click [my AO3 profile page](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leszre/profile) and you will be able to reach me.  
> .  
> | | | a Little-er Announcement | | |  
> [BY-NC-ND 4.0](http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/4.0/): (the gist is...) if you wish, feel free to download and/or share my (*kuh hum* very meager) posts noncommercially, as long as you credit/source me, without any changes and/or alterations.  
> .  
> [ How to get to know me ]: ( **ONLY** if you wish) take as much advantage of the comments section, as I came to realize that I value comments more. (Please note this is my opinion and is **not** meant to offer any commentaries towards this wonderful non-commercial organization) :)  
> 


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